Admit it. You're curious. Sure, you stopped at South of the Border when you were a kid. Like an oasis on the desolate interstate that straddles North and South Carolina, S.O.B. has lured many a weary family off I-95. But you're all grown-up now. What could the tackiest tourist trap in 50 states offer you, beyond a little kitsch and camp?

Fire Water.

Nestled amongst the apocalyptic commercialism of S.O.B. is a nondescript brick and aluminum-siding building that turns out the hottest drink this side of moonshine -- Blenheim Ginger Ale.

I must confess that I am a recent convert.

Only last summer did I discover the lip-numbing joy of a bottle of Blenheim. I am sure that there are those among you who wax poetic about IBC or Barq's roots beers. Fine products, they may be, but they pale in comparison to the canned-heat concussion of a sip of Blenheim's.

(Also known as liquid sterno and intended for use as a cooking fuel, canned heat has stoked the fire of many a destitute alcoholic. Bluesman Tommy Johnson, author of "Canned Heat Blues," used to cut a hole in the top of a loaf of white bread and pour the sterno through in an attempt to filter out some impurities before drinking his fill. He wasn't wholly successful and died an early, alcohol-induced death.)

My first taste came at a crossroads country store outside of Charleston, South Carolina on a sunny, summer morning. Reeling from a date with a bottle of bourbon the night before, I pulled off the road into a dirt lot, followed by swirling clouds of red clay dust that clogged my throat and caked my tongue. Visions of carbonated beverages danced in my head. I raced past the vat of boiled peanuts (a sure sign of my desperate condition, as I never bypass a boiled peanut) and reached into the cooler, in search of something cold and bubbly.

I'm normally a Coca-Cola man. But, when plagued by a hangover, Coke can be a bit too sweet, a mite cloying. That's when I reach for a ginger ale. (Imagine the marketing campaign from the National Ginger Ale Bottlers Association: Ginger Ale: All the burp and half the sugar!) I usually settle for Canada Dry, but it was nowhere to be found. Instead, I picked up a bottle of Blenheim, popped the top and took a healthy swig.

Like a slap in the face from a spurned lover, Blenheim commanded my attention. With the first swallow, my neck went loose, my lips went numb and my heart began to gallop like a thoroughbred. This was not a "soft" drink.

Had I taken time, before I guzzled, to sniff the liquid that gurgled in my gullet like hot sex, I would have been better prepared for the olfactory onslaught that ensued. The closest approximation of the smell that I can give is that of wasabi -- the Japanese horseradish condiment traditionally served with sushi. Imagine a glass of club soda in which a tablespoon of wasabi has been dissolved and you come close to reconstructing the bite of a Blenheim Ginger Ale.

Though Blenheim's is pungent stuff, its taste is not solely defined by heat. There is pleasure as well as pain. Two sips of a Blenheim and your palate, indeed your whole body comes to life. Visions of ginger fairies will dance in your head.

Locals claim that "it's good for what ails you," and they may well be right. If the summary dismissal of my hangover is any indication, they are right. One bottle of Blenheim and I felt a rebirth even Ralph Reed couldn't conceive.

Originated in the 1890's by a Blenheim doctor who added Jamaican ginger to the local spring water in an attempt to mask the taste, the resulting concoction quickly built a reputation as a digestive aid.

Bottled since 1903, Blenheim has, until recently, avoided any attempts at modernization. Until three years ago, each bottle was taken off the production line to be shaken by hand to mix the granulated sugar into the ale. That laborious process ended when the Schafer family, owners of S.O.B., bought out the bottler. The old plant was closed and production moved to its new home amidst the faux-Mexican facades of S.O.B.

Despite the efforts of the Schafer family, Blenheim Ginger Ale is still not widely distributed. In fact, it's damn hard to find -- so hard that if you want to buy a case or two to take home, you had best stop by the bottling plant. Until recently this was a simple proposition. You needed only to find Blenheim S.C. and you had found Blenheim Bottling Company. Now, with the company's acquisition by the S.O.B. folks, things are a bit more difficult.

It seemed easy enough. I called ahead for directions. "You can't miss us," they said. "Take the South of the Border exit. We're right across from the observation tower," they claimed. With the world's tallest sombrero as my guide, I couldn't lose my way. Or so I thought...

Everyone tried to help: "There, through the Ape's thighs, to the right. Just beyond Pedro's Pleasure Palace. Yea, that's it. A little further. No, turn left, not right, at the 30 foot gorilla." I was lost, hopelessly lost -- that is until I rolled down my window, caught a wiff of ginger in the air, and began sniffing my way toward the land of ginger and fizz.

One last word of advice. Try Blenheim's with a jigger of bourbon. It'll make Fighting Cock taste like Maker's Mark.