Best Day in Charleston 2011

I could tell you about reuniting with “the girls” at Social. I could tell you about sand between my toes and Shem Creek dolphin-watching with my family. Or maybe the fact that Charleston left me a reminder: bronchitis and an ear infection. Fact is the trip was too chock-full of good stuff to tell you about the whole thing. So instead, I’m going to tell you about the best day: Thursday, June 23rd.

The day began with grocery shopping. Jake and I needed ingredients for mojitos. We headed to Crickentree: the apartment complex I first called home in SC, where I met current resident and amazing gal, Becky. Becky, her sister Mary, and I used to spend afternoons by the Crickentree pool, so in homage to those days, we did it again on Thursday. Although Becky was under the weather, Mary, Jake, and I concocted our beverages and spent the early afternoon floating around a clear pool. We talked as if not a day had passed, and we laughed (when was I not laughing with Mary?) until finally, it was announced Jake and I had to leave for our “date.”

Our “date” was simple—I told Jake we would go wherever he wanted to go in downtown Charleston, before heading to my brother’s gig at The Pour House at 9 PM. We began our tour at Magnolia’s on East Bay. Magnolia’s is a classic Charleston restaurant, known for expensive lowcountry dining, white tablecloths, and pleasant wait staff. Jake and I ordered a bowl of Blue Crab Bisque—a fancy name for She Crab Soup. She Crab is maybe the most famous dish in Charleston, and it should be. It’s damn delicious. The key ingredient? Crab eggs.  Although Magnolia’s Blue Crab was good, the best She Crab is at Mistral on Market, which tragically no longer exists.

Next, we were off to Pearlz, where we each did an oyster shooter, composed of Pearlz special blend of pepper vodka, cocktail sauce, spices, and a huge raw oyster. I did about a dozen oyster shooters last week, which still wasn’t enough. I also enjoyed a bubbly glass of champagne, while looking out over the slate sidewalks and pastel paint of lower East Bay Street.

Stepping outside, we took a moment to wander past Rainbow Row and into The Battery. I came to realize on this trip that I don’t miss Charleston as much as I thought I did. I don’t miss the tourist hubbub. I DO NOT miss the humidity. I don’t miss the packed bars and lack of taxis. However, I do very much miss walking through The Battery, up Church Street, and over to Broad. I miss the look and feel of Charleston, but I’m not sure I could ever move back.

We headed to dinner at Bocci’s, an Italian restaurant down Church Street off Market. The food wasn’t mind-blowing, but the ambience made the place, as did the sudden (and very Charleston-esque) thunderstorm that descended with no warning outside. I love this about Charleston. I love that it’s sunny one moment and a deluge the next. In Charleston, the streets don’t get wet when it rains; the streets flood. I’ve seen it, first-hand, and I even used to know which streets to avoid when driving home because I knew they’d be two feet under water.

Jake and I paid our tab and ran outside, having missed the lightning and thunder now that we live in the desert. We walked down to Amen Street (it’s a bar; not an actual street). We did two more oyster shooters and headed to McCrady’s—a classy pub hidden down an alley. When we lived in Charleston, Jake and I spent many a quiet pre-party evening sipping scotch, just the two of us. Even the smell of the place reminded me of conversations once shared when Jake and I were still just two semi-strangers, learning each another.

At 8:30, we headed across the water to James Island, where Matt Dobie and his band were set to play at The Pour House. Matt is the lead vocalist and guitar player for Gangrene Machine. They’re four crazy dudes who play funk/psychedelic/rock music, featuring creepy lyrics, occasional costuming, and a wild headman. Matt Dobie? Wild? You heard me. If you met my brother off-stage, you’d think he was a low-key, funny, shy guy. Once on stage, he becomes a head-banging, dancing, theatrical genius. Tom Waits, step down. A new King of Weird has taken your place. My favorite song? “Meat my Friends” about a group of “reasonable cannibals … they just take what they need,” which may include your belly fat. Even though my mom looked a little disturbed on occasion over Matt’s less than politically correct lyricism, my dad walked up to me after the show to say how impressed he was with my little bro. I agreed. In fact, when I saw the boys outside, I pulled a Wayne’s World. (“We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”)

Thursday, June 23rd, was the best day of Charleston 2011 for me. The trip in its entirety reminded me how much fun I used to have talking with my gal pals. How much I miss having my little brother down the street. How much I love the ocean and Spanish moss on Church Street. I did see the ghost of my past self—unavoidable in the same haunts, doing the same shots of Van Gogh, with the same girls I was once single with. I blame my past self for my present bronchitis. But it was worth it, and knowing I’ll be back again in April for Mary’s wedding puts a wide smile on this Phoenician’s face.

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Ghosts of Charleston

First month in Charleston; first oyster roast on Sullivan's Island.

It’s ironic that on June 6th, for my 29th birthday, I received two albums: Sara Bareilles (Kaleidoscope) and Punch Brothers (Antifogmatic). It’s ironic, because listening to earlier albums by these artists got me through Charleston, South Carolina, alive. And now, for the first time since I left, I’m going back next week.

Charleston, South Carolina, is admittedly the most beautiful place on earth. I fell in love with it immediately, as soon as I moved there—literally within four hours. I always loved and will always love the city itself. Phoenix took a while to grow on me. There was smog and traffic, and from our house, it took an hour to get anywhere good. I used to cry over my lost memories of Charleston; now, I can’t imagine living anywhere but Phoenix. Now, Phoenix is my home.

For the first time since leaving Charleston in February of 2010, Jake and I are going back Monday morning. I should feel nothing but excitement, and yet, I’m uneasy. Charleston feels haunted to me now—memories, hazy, as if in a dream. Did I really live there? I can barely believe the things that happened to me there; did they really happen at all?

Social on East Bay. A must-eat in Chucktown.

I have evidence that I lived there. I have wonderful friends who plan to meet me on East Bay at Social Wine Bar on Tuesday. I have the Frommer’s Charleston Travel Guide with a bunch of hand-written notes inside, based on my personal opinions. I have Jake, and if I never lived in Charleston, where did I meet Jake?

Like a soldier returned from battle, maybe I’ve blocked a lot of it out. I’ve hidden my memories of Charleston behind a mental filter to avoid looking them head-on.

I don’t hesitate to admit, the year and eight months I spent in Charleston were the most important years of my life. I had my first career job, and I learned I never want a “career job” again. I had my first serious heartbreak and then, I met my future husband. I realized I was capable of moving to a city I’d never seen and building a group of friends I was lucky to have. I realized I was brave.

Jenny and Matt (my bro), being serious. A moment caught in time ...

Yet, like the carriage tours that so popularly circle Market Street, down to the Battery, and back, I feel as though I could walk down the streets of Charleston and give a tour of my own …

“King Street was where Sara celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday but jokingly told everyone she was turning twenty-one. On East Bay, outside this bar, she sobbed when she realized her uncle was dead and her family would never be the same again. Next to Shem Creek, she decided she would quit her job before depression ruined her life …”

Maybe it’s less an historical tour of my life and more a ghost tour—ghosts of ex-boyfriends, failed opportunities, and a version of myself I no longer mourn.

Who was I in Charleston? That girl was mad as a hatter. She dated the wrong people, went out every night, and drove drunk. She didn’t sleep much, and she was unhappy, unhappy, despite all her denials and cheerful veneers. She loved the city (how could she not?), but she did not love herself.

In Phoenix—with Jake’s help—at the wise old age of twenty-nine, I have figured it out. No, I’m not happy all the time. I still like to go out and party it up, but it doesn’t feel desperate anymore. I’m not desperate. I’m not empty, trying to fill my life with bad men, beach parties, and a job that almost tore me apart. I’m different now, so does that mean Charleston will feel different, too?

Rejoicing in the present.

Not long before I left Charleston, I did a photo shoot on Sullivan’s Island. I wore minimal costuming, no makeup, and had to battle a bunch of balloons, knee-deep in surf while avoiding jellyfish. The photographer said the balloons represented a woman letting go of her dreams. I look sad in most of the photos from that shoot, except for one. In one of them, I appear to be rejoicing. I think I realized it wasn’t about letting go of dreams. It was about letting go of the past.

I still struggle with letting go of my ghosts. It’s not easy, and I am often haunted. Maybe that’s why I’m uneasy about going back to Charleston. I’m afraid the ghosts will be waiting at my old haunts. When I walk into Pearlz for oysters, will I catch a glimpse of the woman I once was? Or will it be okay, because now, Jake is here, and he has a way of exorcising my demons?

I’m leaving you now for two weeks. Don’t worry about me too much. I will have ocean water between my toes soon, and salty, warm waves have a way of keeping ghosts at bay.

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Raw Oysters at Casey Moore’s

As far as I know, I ate my first oyster at an oyster roast on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. At the time, I was a novice. I showed up, dressed up, ready to party. I didn’t realize we would be surrounded by oyster-scented mist and flying shells. I didn’t know I had to “shuck” anything. I certainly didn’t know I had to eat slimy creatures that closely resembled massive piles of snot. Most surprising, though? I loved the slimy creatures.

I soon discovered, via Pearlz on East Bay in Charleston, that I prefer oysters raw rather than roasted. (I prefer them in Oyster Shooters, too, which entails a single oyster in a shot glass of cocktail sauce and Absolute Peppar). Over the course of my two years in Charleston, I consumed more oysters than the entire land mass of the United Kingdom—where oysters are actually protected by an Act of Parliament during the spawning season.

Rumor has it oysters are aphrodisiacs. I recently read a biography of the so-called “great lover,” Casanova, by journalist Ian Kelly. (An interesting read. Made me want to go back to Venice. Check it out here.) Casanova used to eat piles of raw oysters pre-coitus, plus bottles of champagne. I don’t know much about the aphrodisiac claim. I do know that I had a craving last week that felt like pot munchies, minus the pot … and I did not hanker for Doritos; I hankered for raw oysters.

Where—in the land-locked state of Arizona—was a girl to find raw oysters? Jake took me to the grocery store, where I swore I saw some oysters, but they only had mussels. We asked the guy if we could order oysters. He priced us at over a dollar an oyster. I wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. Luckily, I did an online search, where I discovered Casey Moore’s Oyster House in Tempe.

I love Tempe, not just because it has raw oysters. I like the college town feel. I like the ASU campus. I like all the restaurants and bars spread along the two block radius of Mill Street. It feels like home to me; it feels like Athens, Ohio, in the middle of the desert. Casey Moore’s is an Irish pub—one of the most famous in Arizona, according to the website. It’s a nice little place with a dingy, dark inside bar area and a big outdoor patio covered in palm trees and umbrellas. Not classy but cute.

All I cared about were the oysters … and the Bloody Mary’s, which were excellent. I ordered a dozen oysters; nothing else. In case you’re wondering, even in a beach town like Charleston, the oysters were rarely from Charleston. The best oysters are arguably from New England, so I was okay ordering oysters in Arizona; they travel, no matter where you are.

I made my order, and then I waited. I watched the door to the kitchen, and when the little college dude brought my slimy monsters surrounded by ice chunks to our table, I wiped the drool from my chin and dug in.

How do you properly eat a raw oyster? First, you pick up the oyster on the half shell. Using the tiny fork they give you, wiggle the oyster around to make sure it is dislodged from the shell. I like to add fresh lemon juice to mine and a dash of fresh horseradish. (You only need a dash of fresh horseradish. Even when dabbling, you still get that intense burn in your nose that makes you feel like you’ve been punched in the face.) Then, open your mouth, lean the shell on your bottom lip, and pour the whole thing—oyster juice and all—down your throat. At this point, you smile, because you just consumed one of the best known delicacies on earth.

I ate my dozen oysters at Casey Moore’s. I could have had a dozen more, but I stopped myself. See, I didn’t have to panic about the lack of raw oysters in Arizona, because I have now discovered my personal oasis in the desert. I can always go back for more. You should, too, especially if you’ve never tried a raw oyster. I know they look like slimy little monsters, but they taste divine.

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Poe’s Tavern and the Burgers of Insanity

Poe’s Tavern was the first restaurant I visited in South Carolina, literally within an hour of my arrival in the Lowcountry. It’s in a secluded spot for someone who’s not used to jumping islands for food, on Sullivan’s Island next to Mt. Pleasant. Poe’s is named after the famous (infamous?) author Edgar Allen Poe, who was stationed briefly at Ft. Moultrie on Sullivan’s. (His stint at Moultrie even inspired one of his short stories, “The Golden-Bug,” about a mystical beetle that led to buried treasure.) Poe’s Tavern is famous for its burgers. I think it should be famous for its ambience, as well, and no matter who comes to visit me—be it family or friend—he or she consistently requests, “Let’s go to Poe’s for dinner.” It’s inevitable, and frankly, it should be.

Poe’s Tavern is always packed. Any day, any time of day, any month of any year…you’re going to be hard-pressed to find seating. This is perpetuated by the seat yourself policy at Poe’s, which leads to blocked doorways and stairwells—by tourists and locals alike—awaiting his or her own POE BURGER. Of course, this delayed gratification is also perpetuated by the smallness of Poe’s. I’d say it has about as much space as a studio apartment in Manhattan. Its walls are covered with posters and paintings of Mr. Poe himself, depicted in photos, watercolor, and oil, ranging in style from impressionist, to realist, to stained glass. The lighting feels orange. I don’t think it’s really orange. At least, I’ve never seen any orange light bulbs, and yet, the wooden floors and dented tabletops glow gold, just like the sun setting over the ocean but a block away.

Some items to note on the Poe’s Tavern menu:
1) I like the beer selection, for one. It’s BIG. They carry all your basic domestics, as well as an extensive list of imports and microbrews. You can find the perfect beverage to accompany any and all of the strange, delectable burger adornments at Poe’s Tavern.

2) The Poe’s tortilla chips with pico de gallo and guacamole is a must-eat, pre-burger snack. The chips are crisp, warm, and light on the salt. The pico will ruin your chances on a first date kiss but make your tummy happy, and the guac is only challenged in yumminess by my mom’s…which is saying something, because nobody cooks better than Mom.

Vicki, one of my gal pals from Ohio, never misses a Poe's Tavern burger on any of her visits!

3) The BURGERS. As I said, Poe’s Tavern is famous for its burgers. I can’t list just one. I can give you a few tips. All the burgers are named after different Edgar Allen Poe short stories, and all the burgers are also available in chicken form with the same toppings. What are some of the toppings, you might ask? Well, consider the Pit & Pendulum with its Applewood bacon and cheddar cheese. What about the Amontillado with the aforementioned guacamole, pico de gallo, jalapeno jack, and chipotle sour cream? And let us not forget the availability of a fried egg, sweet pepper goat cheese, Edgar’s drunken chili…there are SO many toppings. I suggest going the way of the “Starving Artist.” Starving Artist burgers are any of the Poe’s burgers, served without a bun. I always opt for this, because I can never eat a fully stacked Poe’s burger without making a mess and missing out on the toppings, considering once I’m halfway through, they’ve all ended up lonely, on my plate…

4) Fish tacos. Once I got over the Poe’s Tavern burger craze, I noticed there were other options on the menu, including fish tacos. Living in the Lowcountry, I eat seafood all the time. The sound of a “fish taco” always kept me away. Until I tried them at Poe’s. These suckers come with a couple different fish options: citrus mahi-mahi, spiced yellowfish tuna, or buffalo shrimp. This is the way to go if you want to go “light,” but you’ll be happy you did. They’re possibly even better than the freakin’ burgers.

Poe’s Tavern also hosts one of my most looked forward to events of the year, and that would be their Halloween pumpkin carving contest. Now, I suck at carving pumpkins. However, two of my best friends—Mary and Becky (who grew up on Sullivan’s Island—are amazing at it. So every year, I go for the Blue Moon Pumpkin Ale and for the entertainment of watching these girls work. Poe’s is a perfect Halloween place (did I mention the mysterious orange lighting?), so by the end of the contest, when all the ghoulish, glowing pumpkins are lining the restaurant front steps, it’s an event even Poe would enjoy. If you have the means, as well as geographic vicinity, do not miss this event in October.

Poe’s Tavern is an island oasis, free of annoying Jimmy Buffet music and tropical shirts, but rife with people who just want a good burger and a good time. It is a touch expensive (what do you expect? Your burger might come with a fried EGG, for crying out loud!), but it is well worth the trip and the cash. Come hungry; leave in a fat food coma, with the immortal words of Edgar Allen Poe swirling like opium smoke in your head. Quoth the raven…EAT AT POE’S…

For more about the restaurant, check out the website: http://www.poestavern.com. For more about another Sullivan’s Island Poe event, check out my article in the Charleston City Paper HERE.

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Feels Like Home: Muse Restaurant and Wine Bar

There are people and places in life that feel like home to me. Listening to Ryan Adams, for instance, is reminiscent of metaphorically crawling back into the womb. The warm, electric touch of certain human hands can put each of us in a state of false security. Even smoking clove cigarettes in dark cemeteries on Halloween has the same effect. So does, evidently, going to dinner at Muse Restaurant and Wine Bar in Charleston, South Carolina.

Muse Restaurant and Wine Bar, Charleston, SC

Muse is off the beaten path in my fair city, located at 82 Society, off King Street, below Calhoun. It’s hidden on this side street, and I never would have found it, if not for a curly-haired rickshaw driver named Josh. Inspired by the ancient Pompeian Villa of Mysteries practically destroyed by Mt. Vesuvius in 79 AD, Muse looks like it should be haunted. It probably is haunted. It’s in an old house, replete with a wide, crooked front porch, high decorative ceilings, creaky floors, and light fixtures that blink if the crowd becomes too animated. (With our group of ten girls, it was like we were annoying some Civil War hero with our gossip, because between courses, the flickering lamp behind our table would turn on and off, on and off, until we took a moment to toast and shrug our shoulders.) You can feel that someone lived there once. Muse was not always a restaurant, and footfalls of dead families are as loud as the sound of glasses clinking and plates being cleared.

The food is Mediterranean, and Chef Jason Houser prides himself on using local vegetables and seafood. And why shouldn’t he? We live at the beach for a reason. At first menu glance, I could make no decisions. I knew the wine, because well, wine is not a lingering decision. With wine, you can always order another glass. With piles of seafood, you usually only get one shot, and the stakes were high, because everything sounded good. So step one: wine. “Evolution”, Sokol Blosser, Oregon. A light, soft, citrus white that flowed like lemonade after a long day of yard work. Then, I decided on a salad. (See, I can make decisions.) On the coaxing of my female compatriots, I went for the Bibb Lettuce Salad: Gorgonzola, Almonds, Rosemary, and a Sherry Vinaigrette. It came out on a beautiful, multi-colored plate, reminiscent of ancient Pompeii, destroyed by a raging volcano. Ingredients were fresh, rich, and dang, I was happy with my wine choice/food combo. Points for Dobie.

The main course was tough. I mean, how do you pick ONE thing when EVERYTHING looks good? I knew I wanted seafood, so I opted for the Fennel Tagliatelle—a heavy, rich pasta, tossed with Local Clams and Pancetta. I did a change up on the wine, too, going with a Super Tuscan to match the ferocity of the crisp pancetta. And we’re talking ferocity, people. The serving size of my main dish was small; the taste was not. I could barely finish my meal, it was so rich. Well, and it didn’t hurt that my friends kept feeding me from their plates, too.

Beyond my clams/pancetta masterpiece, I had the chance to taste the Seared Scallops, topped with Gremolata and served with Fazzoletti, Braised Tomatoes, and Arugula (the most tender, sweet scallops I’ve had in Charleston so far) AND the Grilled Duck Breast, rubbed with Sumac & Served with Medjool Dates, Madeira Onions & Pomegranate Jus (who knew duck and pomegranate would equate to a kick ass taste bud party?). I guess the only thing as good as the food was the environment.

Like I said, Muse Restaurant and Wine Bar felt like home. I saw it—an old, yellow house, twinkling Christmas lights in the windows—and felt like I’d been there before. Maybe I have been there before. Maybe the echoing of ghostly footfalls belong to a man I once knew, back when I was wearing hoop skirts, petticoats, and wondering when my Civil War soldier would come home.

You need to be there. Don’t do it for me; do it for a sensation extravaganza: http://charlestonmuse.com/.

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French food on the Market

On my first walk through downtown Charleston, I looked like a tourist. I had a brand new map in my hands and a camera around my neck. About a half dozen strangers came up on the street, asking if I was new in town. (I should have just written “OHIO” on my head and gotten it over with.) After three hours of walking, I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to live here. I was terrified that I would wake up, and it would be snowing. I would wake up, and the skies would be gray. I didn’t wake up, though; I really had moved to Charleston, SC, and it was official—I was in love.

 

After my three-hour trek on that very first day, I was hungry. I wanted to eat, but in a city full of food, where was I supposed to EAT? It didn’t take long for me to find Market Street, and then, there it was: Mistral. I could already smell French food, so I didn’t glance at the menu. No, I just stepped up the huge front step (treacherous in heels, may I add), and I found Paris.

 

Mistral looks like it should be in a foreign country. The walls are covered in paintings by Toulouse-Lautrec; above the bar is a mural of women in petticoats. The tables are hidden beneath bright white tablecloths. (Their bleach bills must be excessive, but it’s a nice touch.) When you sit at the tables, you feel sort of off-balance, as if one of the delicate chair legs may bend beneath your weight.  This is either because of the highly trafficked hardwood floors or because, as I said, you feel like you’re suddenly in a foreign country, and you have no idea how you got there.

 

The place is owned by a French woman and her Irish husband: Francoise and Peter Duffy. I met them both when I ate there for the first time, and she refused to speak to me in English. (My French was rusty, to say the least.) So the joke goes, she gives her husband one day of the year as proprietor of the restaurant—St. Patrick’s Day. The rest of the year belongs to her. For me, she is a woman to be admired, and I think her husband agrees.

 

If you need help picking out a bottle of wine, talk to the head bartender. He knows his stuff, and the man is there so often, I have a sneaking suspicion that he lives at Mistral on a cot on the second floor. Live jazz plays just about every night of the week. They’ve found some of the most talented people in Charleston to sit on their tiny corner stage, right by the front door, and there’s nothing better than digesting to Thelonious Monk.

 

Mistral is a real French restaurant, combining Provencale and French classical cuisine with SC Lowcountry. Some of my personal favorite-not-to-be-missed-you-WILL-drool-on-the-table choices:

 

She Crab Soup: A Charleston standard, this is a rich soup (similar to bisque) made of heavy cream, crab meat, and crab roe (EGGS!), with a splash of dry sherry. It’s practically a dessert.

 

Pate Maison: This is their house pate of rabbit and pork with comichens and Dijon mustard. Sure, it’s rich, but spread it on the crisp, fresh bread, and you’ll be asking for seconds.

 

Saumon Tartare: Fresh salmon, cured salmon, onions, capers and vinaigrette with toast points. A dish that reminds you, you really are right next to the ocean.

 

I could go on and on about this place, but really, do I need to? You’ve already decided to go, haven’t you? To see their full menu and read a bit about the place, visit http://www.mistralcharleston.com/. See you there; I’ll be sitting at the bar.

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Taco Boy and sand in my purse

I can’t believe the weather in Charleston today. There’s an inkling of summer in the air, and the touch of summer has made us all beach-crazy. In the seventy degree heat, you can just feel the creep of jungle July, when we’ll be wishing for March all over again.

 

I made my way to Folly Beach this morning. Upon arrival, surfer boys in wet suits were everywhere. The wind was so intense, I had to leave after an hour. I swear, I lost a couple layers of skin just walking down to the water, and I will never get all the sand out of my purse. Yes, I managed to get burnt, and I was only there for what felt like a second. Damn this Ohio skin of mine.

After the beach, we headed to Taco Boy on the main strip of Folly Beach. It was packed, of course. The quality of the food and the “beachy” environment keep it that way nine months of the year. Because we had a puppy dog travelling with us, we sat on the back porch. While the dogs made friends, we made friends with the menu and our margaritas.

 

I love the servers at Taco Boy. It’s like they’ve been at the beach all day, even though they’ve probably been prepping since eleven AM. We started with the Salsa Trio—three different salsas, served with warm, salty tortillas. Each salsa was individually spectacular, from the roasted jalapeno tomato salsa, to the salsa cruda, to the pico de gallo. By the time the waitress came back, my breath could have killed a horse. And dang, was I happy about it.

 

I ordered three tacos: the Baja Fish Taco, the Grilled Fish Taco, and the Tuna Taco. (When at the beach, eat like you’re at the beach.) Of the three, the Tuna Taco was my favorite. It comes with seared Ahi tuna, chipotle slaw, and cilantro. The Ahi is served in strips, cut so you can see how close it is to raw. The flavor of the fresh fish required no spice (although the chipotle slaw was out of this world). When I took a visit to the communal guy-girl bathrooms, I tried to see into the kitchen, just because I suspected them of having tanks of fish back there being killing as soon as the orders came up.

 

A note on the bathrooms: they are communal. As a chick, the first time I headed in there and came out to wash my hands, I had to question my margarita consumption because there was a DUDE washing his hands next to me. Just be prepared, ladies. And for you men out there, we ARE watching to see if you wash your hands. The pressure is on. Don’t screw up.

 

The Grilled Fish Taco also left a lasting impression. It was composed of chipotle marinated Mahi Mahi with cilantro Dijon sauces, field greens, and salsa cruda. It’s so light and spicy, you could almost call it a health food. Almost.

 

Overall, Taco Boy has never disappointed. Neither has Folly Beach, beyond the occasional wind storm. So if you’re in the Charleston area, I suggest a visit. Make a day of it. Drive down to Folly Beach. Walk through the waves, ducking flying surf boards from the newbies who haven’t quite gotten their sea legs. Then, head over to Taco Boy. Remember to bring your puppy and your appetite, and leave some Folly sand on your seat when you go!

 

For more information, visit http://www.tacoboy.net/.

 

 

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FISH!

I had an insanely good meal last night at Fish Restaurant on King Street, downtown Charleston. The meal itself lasted a good two-and-a-half hours, and everything I tried was perfect. I mean it. PERFECT.

 

1) THE WINE! I don’t like zinfandel. Well. I didn’t like zinfandel. Now, I love zinfandel. It was called Writer’s Block. (Thankfully, I don’t suffer from the disease this morning…) It was a HUGE California red—more like a cabernet blend than a straight up zin. It was lush, full of fruit, and almost sweet on the finish. I practically cried when the bottle ran dry.

 

2) DIM SUM! For happy hour, these bite-size snacks are but a dollar.  I tried the crab wonton in plum sauce, the duck confit goat cheese steamed bun, and the snapper spring roll with ginger aioli. Damn fine. Each and every one of them.

 

3) STEAMED CLAMS! I’m from Ohio, so fresh, delicate, steamed clams weren’t something often shared at the dinner table. For this, I will be eternally bitter, because steamed clams should always be shared at the dinner table. Now that I live by the ocean, they WILL BE. These little guys were served in a sake, shallots, coconut lemongrass broth, and honestly, if I hadn’t been in public, I would have sipped from the bowl.

 

4) THE WINE!!!!!! MORE WINE!!!

 

5) For the entrée, I ordered the craziest thing I saw. I didn’t regret my decision. I had NICO’S DUCK CASSOULET. This was a gorgeous platter, artfully arranged with a bunch of stuff stacked together in a way that made you think, “Huh. Never thought of putting THAT together.” White beans, duck confit, pork belly, haricot vert, and sausage—see, you never thought of it either.

 

6) I could have stopped eating at this point. (Honestly, the wine was already gone.) HOWEVER, I just had to push the envelope and dive straight into dessert—the PUMPKIN BAKED ALASKA. Listen to this… “Frozen pumpkin cheesecake is layered with coconut sponge cake topped in praline meringue and sprinkled with candied pistachios. For a dash of warmth, it’s flambéed with Grand Marnier.” SERIOUSLY? This cake was so dense, you could have thrown it and broken a window. By the end, I was too full to move.

 

I’ve never been so thoroughly impressed with every aspect of a meal. The staff knew what they were talking about, and they were pleasant on top of knowledgeable. Go to Fish. Now. Or just visit their website, http://www.patpropllc.com/#/fish. A word of warning, though. As soon as you start perusing the menu, you’re going to be hungry.

 

PS: I’ll be featuring Charleston artist Karin Olah this week! From her website:

“Karin Olah works on canvas, linen, and paper, creating her signature collage paintings as a way to connect with America’s quilt making heritage. Using fabric, often antique textiles, the artist works in a manner that mimics the flow of paint from a brush. Intricately cut, placed, and pasted threads overlap one another and become the paintings’ stories. Much of the artist’s palette pairs historical Charleston colors with lush complementary tones selected from her vast fabric collection. Translucent layers of cottons, silks, and linens blend with opaque calligraphic brushstrokes as graphite lines intersect the surface. Karin finishes many of the compositions with a dance of colorful encircling thread.”

 

For more about Karin, visit her website at: http://www.karinolah.com/ver1.0/index.php.

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