CARLTON FLETCHER: You can’t go wrong at a restaurant called Shuckums

“You can’t judge a daughter by looking at the mother, You can’t judge a book by looking at the cover.”

— Bo Diddley

I won’t mention all those cliches we know about first impressions and making snap value judgments. Let it suffice to say that I thought of all of them this weekend after my encounter at Shuckums Oyster Bar in Panama City, Fla.

Yes, Shuckums.

First of all, I don’t like seafood. I know that makes me odd, but I had a bad encounter with some shrimp when I was a kid, and ever since even the thought of eating such makes me feel a little throw-uppish.

Secondly, if I did eat seafood, I don’t know if I’d want to eat it at a place called Shuckums. Just seeing the name out front of the restaurant led to jokes about what might be on the menu: corn? modesty (aww, shucks)?

But it was Sunday night, Shuckums was just across the street, and it was one of the few places open. So my wife and I decided to give it a shot.

We had the option of sitting at the bar area or sitting in a separate room where karaoke was going on. The karaoke area seemed a bit less rowdy — most in the bar were drinking heavily and cheering an NFL playoff game that was on TV — so we opted for what we thought might be the lesser of two evils.

Here’s where the first impression bit comes in.

There were maybe 25-30 patrons in the karaoke section, and when we were seated, a guy was singing Elvis’ version of “American Trilogy.” He wasn’t exactly butchering it, but I don’t know that the King would have been honored by the tribute.

The folks at all the tables grew increasingly more rowdy — they all seemed to know each other — and just after the waitress took our order, the karaoke master decided to phone someone — I believe it was Linda — who apparently is a regular but had not shown up on this night. The karaoke sensei decided to call her and Facetime with her so that everyone there could say hi. That got me to thinking about maybe moving into the bar area.

But we stuck it out — through some really bad but spirited versions of some country tunes and a couple of slightly out-of-place Abba songs — and after a while it became fun, in that way that watching a really bad movie with friends who shout out smart-acomments at the actors — a la “Mystery Science Theater” — is fun.

Then a lady said she recognized us from walking on the beach, and the conversations started. You know you’re in for a fun conversation when a lady walks up and tells you, “Woo, I’m drunk as hell.” All of a sudden, as a passable “He Stopped Loving Her Today” was performed, we became part of the group. People stopped by to say hi, and before long everyone was encouraging us to “get up and sing one.”

(People who know me or read this column regularly and are aware of my innate musical disability will be pleased to note that I did not sing a song.)

By the time dinner came — I had a burger, and it tasted about what you’d expect a burger to taste like in a seafood restaurant — what I at first feared might be one of those cringeworthy evenings you look back on as a vacation downer had turned into a fun night that added to the experience of getting away for a few days.

The topper of the evening, of course, came when our waitress brought me a piece of very good cheesecake, and the entire gang sang “Happy Birthday.” I felt myself blushing in the semi-darkness of the restaurant but thought it a very sweet moment.

I guess my lesson for the weekend was not to judge a book — or a badly-named restaurant or its off-key-singing patrons — by its neon cover. However, even with my presumptuousness at least temporarily cured, if I come upon an eatery called “Big’uns Mountain Oyster Bar,” I still will not give it a try.