At this hidden gem, Scottish hospitality has crossed the undulating Atlantic and made its way to Tybee Island.
Written by Kiki Dy
Photography by John Alexander
“Crack/craic” has myriad colloquial meanings. To the Scots, it’s affectionate banter — high-velocity barbs ping-ponged between neighbors and friends. To frequent patron Kaylee Hettenbaugh, owner of Mirror Image Fish Printing, it’s shorthand for the addictive quality of Chef Gordon Card’s food. In my family, it’s code for an uncouth meltdown — a verbal crack of the whip, so brief, unbidden, and bizarre that it sears its way into family lore for generations.
The first time I visited The Kelpie Bistro and Pub, Card’s Scottish restaurant adjacent to Chu’s on First Street on Tybee, I experienced all three. I had happily enjoyed a fish pie. But then, like the malevolent, shape-shifting water beast the restaurant is named for, I shifted in mood. I spotted the specials board, saw “deconstructed beef Wellington” listed, and — fortified by two gin and sodas — looked down at the sign, back to the bar, and back again before indignantly pointing and saying, “Deconstructed beef Wellington? Is that just a roast? Call me when it’s constructed.” Then I walked out the door.
Card — who co-owns The Kelpie with his wife, Whitney — takes the story with good humor when I later crash his kitchen to ask why he hasn’t answered my correspondence. On this visit, the specials menu offers Scotch collops (a thinly sliced meat dish that traces to the 18th century), a Wagyu Highland burger, and rarebit.
“I try to take the everyday and give it just a little bit of an extra,” says Card.
Unlike many restaurants, Card actually keeps his specials … special. “He doesn’t like to repeat them,” says bartender Erika Sprague, who’s been with The Kelpie since its August 2025 opening.
“On Tybee, everything is fried, fried, fried,” Sprague shares. “To me, this is just a nice change.”
Some things, however, remain sacred. The come-as-you-are bistro has a one-page menu of staples including fisherman’s pie, fish and chips, Guinness stew, and braised short rib mac. Tipples on the compact specialty cocktail list include a refreshing, classic Mamie Taylor and an elderflower gimlet.
When Sprague interviewed for the job, she had one question: “Will y’all have Scotch eggs?” she asked Card.
The answer was yes.
“That’s all I needed to know,” she tells me.
Skye High Hospitality
Before Southern hospitality, there was Scottish hospitality. Taverns, alehouses, and inns, dating as far back as the 14th century, welcomed locals and transients alike. They were more than just venues to wash down innards with a glass of Scotch. They were indispensable mustering points: spaces for townspeople to discuss civic matters, gossip, spread news, settle tensions, and celebrate each other and where travelers got a front row seat — and a warm introduction — to those dynamics.
During the Scottish diaspora, starting around 1745, many Highlanders settled along the Georgia coast, bringing with them a standard of hospitality that Card embodies today: caring, creative, dynamic. Perhaps long ago, some distant relations from Card’s ancestral Edinburgh or Isle of Skye (where he opened his first restaurant) once bellied up to our Pirates’ House bar.
No Reservations Required
To get this interview done, I interloped in The Kelpie’s kitchen at the start of dinner service — taking the “no reservations required” verbiage perhaps too literally.
“Did my wife set this up?” Card asks a little incredulously.
It’s only 4 p.m., and tickets are already spewing out of the kitchen printer.
Amy Griffith, who has also been with the restaurant since opening, walks in and announces that the gentleman who just ordered the salmon BLT doesn’t want salmon. The two share a knowing glance, then Card calmly pivots without hesitation.
The secret to his equanimity? Being in the restaurant business for 20 years, yes, but also being by the water. “I’ve always lived by the water,” says Card, who was born in Ottawa. “It doesn’t matter where — Canada, Virginia, Scotland, or Savannah.”
As is the case with many Savannahian origin stories, Card didn’t plan to move here when he arrived 13 years ago. “This was supposed to be a vacation,” he says. “Then I just stayed.” Before The Kelpie, he helmed Savannah favorites like Bubba Gumbo’s and Green Truck Pub.
Like his ancestors, Card knows how to gather a clan to a tavern. “We try to be very community-involved,” he says.
“[The Cards] have something for the whole family,” says Sprague. “Mom and Dad can sit in here and have a cocktail while the kids run around outside.” Community is the crux of everything. Every month, the Cards support a different charity. There are wine tastings, spirits nights, pup crawls that end with the last dog of a litter getting adopted midservice, and kids’ movie nights projected out on the patio throughout the summer.
A regular, who has clearly been listening for a while, cuts in.
“The whole vibe of a place starts with the owner,” he says. “It’s not just opening the doors and trying to sell food and booze.” He pauses, and then, with a glance from his glass up to Sprague, adds, “But can I get another when you have a chance?”
New and Old Tales
As far as owners go, Card is omnipresent. He’s there with a big grin the following weekend when I stop by after Cockspur Productions’ second annual Eric Clapton tribute at the Tybee Post Theater. That Sunday, The Kelpie is abuzz like the Scottish taverns of yore. Very few phones out, very many drinks flowing. “Oh, there’s the dance police,” someone shouts.
The Kelpie’s giant curved granite bar maximizes its panoptic effect, making it perfect real estate for brandishing mischievous smiles or friendly expletives at other barflies. Patrons can choose to sit inside or out on the restaurant’s sizable patio, where a second bar makes a great centerpiece for music, movie nights, and private parties.
But whether you’re seated at the bar or on the patio, this is the kind of place where decades-old stories are repeated with preposterous but amusing specificities and new tales are swapped, too. Looking at the coffee table toward the back of the bar, it’s easy to imagine it a year from now, spilling with artifacts of auld lang syne, photobooks of annual Burns Night suppers, blurry Polaroid group selfies, business cards, and inside jokes.
“I wanted to bring a little bit of my culture here and have fun while I was doing it,” Card says.
That’s Scottish-Southern hospitality. “Craic” food. Tales told. An occasional middle finger lifted in jest. In such a convivial atmosphere, even a kelpie would be okay with a deconstructed beef Wellington.
