Charleston Chews, Brews, and Views Pt. 1

I have no need to describe my affinity for the Atlantic. I'm fond of the culture (both above and below the Mason-Dixon line), the food, the history, and the cities which define the East Coast as somewhere other than the home of New York, and more regrettably, the point-source pollution that Long Island and north Jersey relentlessly produce.

Principle: Eat local as often as possible, especially whilst travelling.
Reasoning: Support local business? Sure. Search for heritage, tradition, and integrity through local flavors, ingredients, and culture? Definitely.

Provide a domestically-produced superior (or at least competitive) product or service and I will be forever loyal; it's about heritage, tradition, and integrity. It's why I wear and prize my Aldens and Made in USA shirts by the Brethren and J. Press.

Last week I had the opportunity to spend four days in Charleston, SC. I jumped at the chance and ~550 miles later stepped out of the car and into (unexpected) southern heat. Thank you Weather Channel, you were only off by 10+ degrees. Not so funny when I come expecting to continue breaking in new denim all week and have just one other pair of (red) shorts in my bag.

Remedy Roses

Lunch: The Remedy Market on Spring- Owned by a young couple with a retriever mix named "Charles Barkley", they offer a light menu of sandwiches, salads, natural drinks, and craft beers. It's a small place, conducive to speaking with other customers and the owner. Victory's Hop Devil IPA and fresh roses kept my tuna melt with gouda company.

Dinner: Gilligan's. Uninspired, but acceptable seafood. Dinner wasn't so much a failure as an exercise in mediocrity, but we ran into some excellent advice while there. After asking a local for the dive-iest, dirtiest, most hole-in-the-wall seafood place around, he told us about a place that his family used to run out by Folly Beach.

The good news is that it's still open and doing quite well, the bad news is that his family no longer has any connections to the restaurant,  "They got a sign now, but that's only been up a few years. You know you're on your way when you hit the dirt road." 

Drinks: The Gin Joint. Apologies for being camera-less at the time, but if you're ever in Charleston, the $10 is well worth the artfully mixed cocktails they have on their menu. This brief mention really doesn't do the place justice; you'll just have to go for yourself.

Bacon and toast are the stars of this meal.

Breakfast: Halo. I must admit, while I enjoy toast, I've never been excited about it. Breakfast at Halo changed this. The multigrain loaf from the nearby Ashley Bakery produced the best toast I've ever had. Ever. Good prices and service after the breakfast cutoff time mean I'll definitely go back next time I'm in town.

Lunch/Dinner: The Crab Shack. Slow service. Free peanuts. Beware the Charlie Melt or bring Tums and Lipitor. Fortunately I don't need either, but some might.

In any town, I seek out places that locals know about and visitors try to keep secret; a true hole-in-the-wall or dive is worth its weight in gold.

To be continued...

Surprise from the Sky

Gifts are better late than never.

This took too many attempts, just like Foster, of A Restless Transplant, said it would.

Inside this iconic box is a sterling silver engine turned belt buckle with my four initials engraved on it. I've always wanted one, but I felt as if such items were best received as celebratory gifts. In my case, this one is for my college graduation; quite suiting, I think.

Though I enjoy the idea, which an acquaintance of mine once followed, of engraving something ironic (in his case "BROKE") on a belt buckle, I feel as if I should own one with my initials on it, first.

My mom mentioned that she used to have one from my grandfather; however, it's since gone missing. I hope it turns up someday, even if I have my own. Such things are best enjoyed when passed down generation to generation.

Failure on the Eastern Shore

A few weeks back, BWmF, JJ, and friends accompanied me on an expedition to Calvert Cliffs State Park on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake. Neither BWmF or I had been in the better part of a decade, but we'd gone a few times together back in elementary and middle school. Fossil hunting on one of the sunniest days in February should have been a nice change of pace, if it weren't for the tides and the wind.

BWmF

The two mile hike from the parking lot to the beach was pleasant. The sunlight shone clearly through the trees, illuminating the salt marsh and revealing sliders sunning on logs just beyond the reach of my 35mm lens. If the wind wasn't sign enough that we were in for a tedious experience on the shore, we passed a group of people armed with buckets, shovels, sieves, and waders looking dejected and tired as they passed us on the trail.

We were greeted by high tide and violent winds that whipped sand in sporadic bursts across the couple hundred yards of open beach. Thirty foot cliffs on both sides of the beach intensified the onshore winds and the four of us hid behind sunglasses and hoods. My D70S stayed safely in the bottom of a zip-top LL Bean tote, Diana should have made an appearance (but didn't), and I only thought to take two quick shots with my Droid X once on the beach.

Margot's final effort.

BWmF before the log crossing

An hour of lackadaisical digging and sifting of the sand produced not a single shark tooth between the four of us. BWmF and I reminded ourselves that we weren't in Aurora, NC, a town that seems to be built on fossil-rich river sediment. After a picnic, sponsored by Wawa, we returned home disappointed, empty-handed, and sandy. Sometimes, that's just how it goes.

Love in Bloomington.

 Bloomington is a wonderful place in the summer; social circles expand, fraternity rivalries and hostility evanesce, scores of college kids hurl themselves into quarries, and romance blossoms.

I fell in love almost three years ago in the summer of '08. I was seduced by the promise of a new experience; something intimate and familiar, yet rustically exotic. It was the allure of something honest, local, and secret. 

I was introduced to a fine Bloomington tradition that summer- Hinkle's. This burger joint (shack?) isn't physically hidden like The Burger Joint in Le Parker Meridien Hotel, but you don't end up eating there by accident. Within its walls is an experience that is best shared with close friends, one of whom must possess a car. Upon entering, you won't hear much beyond the hiss of the flat top and a request for your order, "dear." People don't come here to talk; they come to eat. 

Hinkles x Diana

The menu is simple, just like the burgers, and I never find myself tempted to get anything else. It helps that they only accept cash. The burger is a beautifully thin, savory patty with the perfect amount of caramelizing; slightly crispy, yet still tender. The white onions are pressed into the burger as they grill, thus simultaneously infusing their flavor and texture into the experience. The pickles add the perfect amount of saltiness to the mix.

My order? One double, one single (cheeseburger of course) with onions, pickles, and mayo. 

Note: I don't care who you are, every burger joint-style burger should have mayo on it. 

The day before I graduated, like I did any other time before an extended departure from town, I stopped by for my usual order. They knew I was leaving, but I had to explain I wasn't coming back. The sense of community and loyalty only added to the Hinkle's experience and I waxed nostalgic as I contemplated my burger.

Alas, experiencing true love isn't a once in a lifetime experience. I know I fell in love, again, just a week ago. You can have it ground fresh Monday-Friday, 10 to 4, provided they don't run out of meat. Make sure you get onions and pickles or you'll find yourself on the receiving end of some rather embarrassing announcements about your condiment choice from the 4'8" 70-some year old powerhouse that takes your order. (Read: "Who's the pussy who didn't order onions?")

There's a long history to Hinkle's and while I could take the time trying to retell its story, I think it's best told by the newspaper clippings on the wall. If you ever find yourself in Bloomington, IN, look the place up and order a double cheeseburger with onions and pickles; it's not Hinkle's if you have it any other way.