Established in 1951, The Chattaway is a family-owned and operated restaurant and beloved staple in St. Petersburg, located at 358 22nd Ave South. Palms, a koi pond, and painted flowerbed-bathtubs surround the outdoor patio.

The patio regularly features live music, and on cold nights, bonfires are lit, so cozy up to both sensations. While The Chattaway’s renowned for their Chattaburger, another fancy beckons: afternoon tea. Reserve tea-time Monday – Sunday, 12:30 pm – 4:00 pm. A reminder that The Chattaway is cash-only (there is an ATM on-site). 

A gem in the Old Southeast

My companions are Jillian (Jill) Frers, the owner—British, generous, inimitable—and a nameless snaggle-toothed cat. The nameless cat curls around the dainty tea pots, cups, and saucers, but never knocks anything off, either accidentally, or more common in cat-culture, intentionally. We sit in the dining-room, a pastiche of old Florida, Victorian revival, and smidges of tchotchkes, waiting for the tea to steep.

I must confess—I don’t get tea. Like most Americans, I main-line coffee, not for taste, but utility. I’ve attempted to convert into a tea-lover, traveled to the plantations of Hunan, China, visited markets where huge bales of the verdant stuff are sorted and sold. I’ve attended two tea-ceremonies that were aesthetically impressive, yet entirely lost on me, and I’ve let boxes of tea stale in a cupboard along with my good intentions. Arriving at The Chattaway, I’m once again open to conversion.

Indulge in the finger food tower

It’s March, and Jill’s excited for the busy season. “When people come down to Florida and visit,” she says. “They’re like family… I’m not in this for money.” As we’re speaking, Jill’s granddaughter delivers finger-foods to the neighboring table: two triple-tiered towers arranged with cucumber, turkey and cheese, and roast beef sandwiches. There’s shrimp salad, chocolate raspberry scones, toasted crumpets with butter served with clotted cream and lemon curd, and jelly preserves.

I eye the tower of delicacies, while Jill says that in recent years “more men have started coming. And they really enjoy it. Some bring dates or friends and have a really good time.” Here’s as good a cue as any to get Jill to convert me into a tea-lover.

“Tea is tea”

What am I missing? Jill simply states, “tea is tea.” The more I ask about tea, the more we talk about everything but tea—our lives, mostly, the juicy bits. She tells me about wartime in Britain, feeling embarrassed and exhilarated to sleep in strangers’ homes to avoid bombing raids, marrying a US sailor and immigrating to Florida. We speak family, losses, and old beaus, each dutifully listening to the other unfold like a cotton napkin, lightly soiled.

I had allotted 30 minutes for afternoon tea, but stay for over two hours, thoroughly enjoying the company and conversation, which turns out is the important thing about tea, spilling it. So, make a reservation at Chattaway. Go alone and make a friend, like I did, or bring a few of your own. Let the tea steep a few minutes, and the conversation much longer. Order the finger-food tower, or the Chattaburger. Talk to Jill. Pet the cat. Spend more time here than you intended. 

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