Chucktown

Charleston, the first successful settlement in what was to be the state of South Carolina, is the home of many things, including secession (legislators there voted unanimously in 1860 to leave the union), the first battle of the Civil War, shrimp and grits, snobs (according to a successful group of restaurateurs this stands for slightly North of Broad), and yours truly. To be honest, I made my home for years 1 to 17 in the suburb of Mount Pleasant but let's not quibble over little details such as accuracy. As with Fox News, a substantial suspension of disbelief is usually required to accompany this column.
I returned to the homestead recently to pay a visit to my mother and to hang out a bit with my younger brother Colin and some of his graduate school pals. We rendezvoused with Colin's buds downtown at the old slave Market on Meeting Street where Mom suggested a historical tour for those who had not previously had their Charleston cherry popped. Our group assented and we meandered down East Bay towards the Battery.
If you have ever seen a house that was so large that you thought to yourself, man I want that, but I just can't afford it, then you have beheld a building that could fit inside the garage of most of the mansions that line the Battery. Check out the attached picture to get an idea of what the servants quarters looked like. The words behemoth and ginormous were invented by a Charlestonian to give a proper sense of the dimension of these structures. Line your bathroom from floor to ceiling with one hundred dollar bills and you might be able to meet the down payment for one of these homes, were they even available for purchase. One of these homes coming on the market is a rare occurrence in reality, a state you probably haven't visited for a while if you think you can actually afford to live in this luxurious hood.
You may be wondering what the word Battery stands for, which is cool because I was one of the 10% who failed to fall asleep in my history class. I must have had too much caffeine in my system. The Battery is not named after a Walkman powering device (if you are under 20 years of age please take some time to look up what a Walkman is), the pitching and catching duo, or even the best friend of assault, you know, the violent guys that can lead to your arrest and imprisonment. Rather, the area is named for the cannons that lined the nearby sea walls and were used to defend against the evil assaults of the damned Yankees (not the baseball team although they suck too) during the Civil War (which amazingly enough was not even that civil according to the eminent historian Axl Rose).
Afterward, we trudged through the dense humidity down Meeting Street in search of the cold beer that had been screeching my name like a banshee for a good while. Back at the Market, I reminisced about the days when you could get the number one meal, consisting of a steak, a pint of ale, and a slave all for the low, low price of $200. Fortunately (or not depending on your point of view), the damn Yankees won (God they always win - I fucking hate them) and that terrible practice came to an end. You can still purchase just about anything else at the Market, where the endless stalls chock full of beads, trinkets, and hot sauces lead you to the sweet Gullah (an African-American culture confined to the Sea Islands of South Carolina and Georgia) ladies patiently sewing together their sweet-grass baskets and speaking a mostly incomprehensible gibberish to one another (the lovely Gullah tongue).
Whatever you decide to purchase, make sure to stop off at one of the local watering holes to wet your whistle when you are done. If you go to Charleston between the months of April and October you will be dehydrated within approximately one minute of leaving the proximity of an AC unit. As a result, a drink is mandatory and there are a host of places to attain one within short walking distance. I recommend Tommy Condon's, Wild Wing, South End Brewery, and Henry's, but these are just a drop in the bucket. FYI, if you think you have been to a Wild Wing because you went to the one in Greenville you are wrong. Although a delightful place that has generated a great deal of business our WW is not worthy of cleaning out the Market Wild Wing's toe jam. Just a fact, apologies to those sure to be offended.
Our crew visited all of the bars listed above, with the exception of Henry's (hey our guests might have needed a reason to come back to town) as well as the most pretentious bar I have ever had the displeasure of entering. I will not justify this place by calling it by name and fortunately that will be easy since I have forgotten the moniker. This buzzing hive of metrosexuality was inhabited by a breed of people that had very obviously spent over two hours preparing for their night out on the town - and I speak now only of the guys. I am surprised the women were able to even make the place at all before the week ended considering all the intense preparation needed to enter. The only saving grace was a man , obviously a pimp walking around in an all red outfit (down to the shoes and hat) whose appearance gave me a hearty chuckle that I kept to myself for fear of being pimp-slapped.
After ducking into the much more civilized Moe's Tavern to have a drink with Al Coholick and to cleanse the stench of cologne, we made for the house and called it a night.
We woke on the anniversary of our country's birth and headed out to the Isle of Palms, a beach within just a few minutes drive of the momster's crib. Well, it would be that close if every other motherfucker on the planet had not also decided to head to the shore for some fun and sun that day. I was nice enough not to mention what a bad idea it was to go to the beach on July 4th. Except to my long-suffering brother who had to hear it twenty-five times (he would probably tell you it was more). Once we arrived I had to head straight to the restroom, where I took a shit that was more intense than the last twenty minutes of "The Exorcist." You're welcome for sharing.
We joined the crowd and then commenced participating in the normal beach activities, such as figuring out what people look like naked. Since these happenings probably interest you as much as the previous bowel movement play-by-play, I will instead describe the state of Charleston beaches as a whole. Besides the Isle of Palms, there is Sullivan's Island and Folly Beach - the local surfers' Mecca, if you consider someplace with three foot waves as worthy of praying to five times a day. Edisto Beach, Kiawah Island, Pawley's Island, and Seabrook Island are all within relatively easy driving distance as well.
After surviving the late morning and early afternoon with only mild pre-cancerous lesions, we made our way back to the house and prepared for the night's festivities. For others, this time consisted of showering, primping, purchasing food and beverages. For me, this time was better utilized with a three-hour nap. If anything exciting happened during these hours someone else is going to have to write their own fucking article about it because I was occupied in the endeavor of becoming one with my pillow.
That evening, thanks to the intercession of a friend of a friend, we were actually going to be attending a cookout at one of those mansions I previously described. How appropriate that on July 4th a peasant such as myself would be raised up and allowed to trod the sacred halls of the Charlestonian elite. Like Yakov Smirnoff (for those of you not familiar with Yakov he was a 1980s version of Borat who acted like a fool, although in truth he wasn't actually acting) said in his delightful Russian patois, "What a country!"
The fulfillment of my American dream took me to a palace just off of Tradd Street in downtown Charleston. Jaws dropped soon after our admittance to the inner sanctum beyond the iron gates that faced the street. My own mouth remained agape for the entirety of our visit and I do admit there may have been some drooling involved. Food was soon brought off the grill and allowed me to look a little less awkward with my oral orifice constantly open like the main entrances on a five-dollar whore.
The house boasted a yard capable of being used as a practice field by the New York Jets, in the center of which was a tree fort so huge that the wood used to build it is no doubt responsible for the deforestation of Brazil. I was incredibly jealous of the kids who called the place home until I found out they didn't have a television. Maybe the parents didn't want Sponge Bob and the Teletubbies teaching them about homosexuality.
I could go on and on about the colossal mansion, but thankfully this isn't Better Homes and Gardens.
Just after dinner we took the short jaunt over to Waterfront Park to watch the fireworks. Having seen the fancy lights and explosions associated with such an event a time or two, I chose to drift into my own twisted thoughts and reflect upon the place that was once my home. Sitting in the humid darkness, mosquitoes drank my blood like mini-Draculas and a foot-long palmetto bug crawled over my foot. Suddenly, the massive flying roach took off into the night sky, its wingspan blocking out the moon momentarily. Ten simultaneous painful bites on my hand reminded me that I was leaning on a fire ant hill. Don't get me wrong, I do love to visit, but in that instance I remembered the reasons why I live in Greenville instead.

The Story of the South Carolina Flag

As someone who enjoys history, I view the subject as not only useful for understanding the present, but as a source of fascinating stories. In my opinion, these tales are all the more interesting because of their veracity. I am lucky enough to be a South Carolina native and resident - a place that is as full of history (good and bad) as any place in the United States. My home state is full of classic stories of war, romance, and Liberal Massachusett Senator ass-whipping. Of all these adventures in the world of reality, perhaps the one I find the most interesting involves the origins of the state flag of South Carolina. I will take you back to a time when things looked bleak for the rebels. The empire's fleet was approaching and the harsh breath of Darth Vader could be heard underneath his helm. Our destruction at the hands of these dark forces seemed as certain as another losing season for the Pittsburgh Pirates.
The year was 1776 and the thirteen colonies were in rebellion against England and their king, George III. George Washington had just defeated the redcoats in Boston, with the help of Ethan Allen, who hadn't even founded his furniture company yet. The Brits had decided to try a new tack, a naval invasion of the city of Charleston, a place where loyalist sympathies were higher than in Red Sox nation. Successfully taking Charleston would eliminate a crucial rebel port and strike a great blow against the cause of whatever the colonies were fighting for at the time. Something about taxes, I think - who says we forgot our roots? The commander leading the British fleet was in fact not Darth Vader (he was conducting an operation on Cloud City at the time), but the equally ludicrously named Peter Parker. In his parents' defense, they could not have foreseen the success of the comic, much less the trilogy of movies starring Toby Maguire. Before sending Parker on his mission, Admiral Howe, commander of the British forces in America, reminded Parker that with great power, comes great responsibility.
Meanwhile, back at Superfriends headquarters in Charleston, the colonists had just heard of the upcoming British invasion and were buying a lot of Beatles, Kinks, and Rolling Stones' albums in order to prepare. Commander Colonel Moultrie also thought it might be a good idea to build a fort at the mouth of the harbor, in order to defend against the approaching warships. They chose Sullivan's Island as the place to set up their defense. With few building materials at hand they chose to use palmetto logs to build their fortress, which after at least five intense seconds of thought, they called Fort Sullivan. If they had not wasted so much time titling the fort, they might have had time to finish constructing it, but unfortunately the structure only had three completed sides when the limey bastards arrived in Charleston. The future of dental hygiene in America hung in the balance.
On the British side, Spiderman (oops, I blew his cover) had a brilliant two-pronged attack plan to crush his enemies and take the city. He would use his fleet to attack the fort from the front while a force of marines would land at the island adjacent to Sullivan's, today known as the Isle of Palms, where they would wade the short distance across to Sullivan's Island. They would go in the back door and catch the colonials by surprise (kind of like you did to your wife last night). Now that you have met both teams and got an idea of their gameplans, let's go down to the floor to check out the action. It should be exciting!
The Tories opened the action by winning the coin toss and choosing to shoot first. Amazingly, the blasts from their cannon failed to damage Fort Sullivan in the least. The soft palmetto wood, instead of being blasted apart, absorbed the shells like a catcher's mitt. They did manage to shoot down the South Carolina flag, which at this point in history consisted of a crescent mooon on a navy blue background. A brave (or stupid, your call) Sergeant by the name of Jasper climbed the ramparts under heavy fire and replaced the fallen symbol. Despite continued bombardment, no real damage was being done to the fort.
Part one of the attack was a waste of time, so how was the land attack progressing? The British marines had landed without any problem on the far side of the Isle of Palms and progressed to the inlet that separated that island from Sullivan's. It appeared they could just wade across a fifty yard channel and commence their assault. Unfortunately for the soldiers, no one had put up any warnings yet at Breech Inlet, as the confluence of the two islands is now called. Signs that today read: dangerous current, DO NOT SWIM or just used a picture of the Grim Reaper to give you the idea. The crossing was not shallow in reality. If you see the area at low tide, it is obvious that the water will be above head high just a matter of feet from shore. Needless to say, those soldiers that lived never made it to the other side. The colonists would not have to worry about a ground attack.
With his master plan falling quickly apart, Parker had one more option - fire at the fort from the back side, which due to a dispute with the contractors (probably Halliburton, man I hate those guys), happened to lack a wall. Some really smart British guy had noticed this deficiency during the previous exchange of grapeshot and suggested that maybe they fire at the defenseless part of the fort instead. The fleet sailed farther into the harbor in order shoot directly into this small gap in the defenses. Fate again intervened on the part of the Americans, for it was low tide. Modern day Charleston harbor is very silty, it can only be kept open for shipping with the help of constant dredging, a process by which the silt is removed from the bottom and deposited on uninhabited islands in the center of the waterway. During low tide there was not enough water to accomodate a large ship-of-the-line, and they became stuck upon sandbars. The British were now sitting ducks and their ships were blown apart by the Fort Sullivan cannon. By the time high tide came, the fleet was battered and beatened - they could do nothing but beat a hasty retreat with their remaining forces. The South Carolinians had won the day.
Postcript:
Charleston would stay free for several years before succumbing to a second British invasion. Fish and chips never did catch on in Charleston despite the limey's best efforts.
Colonel Moultrie was eventually promoted to General and had a middle school named after him. I went there. That school really sucked. It was recently torn down.
Sergeant Jasper died during another battle while trying once more to save the flag. Jasper county, one of the dumbest counties in the state, is named after him. Irony is sweet.
We all know what happened to Peter Parker.
The palmetto tree was added to the state flag in honor of the crucial role it played in saving the fort from attack. The origins of the crescent moon on the flag are debated to this day. I theorize that the colonists thought the redcoats were werewolves and if they had a crescent, rather than a full moon on their hats and flags, the enemy would be unable to turn into their more powerful lupine form. I bet no one has thought of that before.

Charleston, The Mecca of Southern Cuisine

In recent years the Greenville restaurant scene has witnessed an increasing influx of cuisine rooted in Lowcountry tradition. Shrimp and grits, crabcakes, and fried green tomatoes have all become staples in many of our local establishments. The source of much of this gob-stuffing grub is the city of Charleston, home to numerous restaurants and cooking schools that are on the cutting edge of the chef’s knife. I decided that as a respected correspondent for a restaurant paper of some international note, that it was my responsibility to get to the bottom of just exactly what is going on in that ancient city that is driving people’s taste buds into fits of revelry unknown outside of an ecstasy-fueled rave. Also, I was invited to a wedding and would be there anyway (see this blog's original post for my thoughts on marriage). As a result, I took a trip down to Charles Town, as it was once known back in the day, and spent a weekend sampling the vittles and libations that are as bountiful there as 6’5 transvestites at a gay bar.
I arrived in the Holy City, as Charleston is known as due to its church-dominated skyline and love for Krispy Kreme (I will now lie back and soak in the boos), around nine in the evening on a dark and stormy Friday night. I met up with my friends and we chose a rendezvous point in the Market, the area where vendors hock hot sauce, sweetgrass baskets, and T-shirts etched with such witticisms as “I Eat Dirt.” Our destination proved to be Wild Wing, which as many of you who have not been on an extended acid trip know, has expanded to our fair city. Okay, so Wild Wing is not an example of Charleston cuisine, being that Buffalo wings are from some evil place in the frozen Yankee-ridden North near the fourteenth colony. The restaurant chain was, however, formed in the Lowcountry and this particular location always has live music, which is what the crowd wanted at the time. In addition, they serve buckets of beer six at a time, rather than the usual five, so things quickly spiraled out of control. We greatly enjoyed the atmosphere, which featured a soon to be betrothed chap toting a bowling ball chained to his leg. He seemed to be unable to hold onto his ball, continually dropping it on the floor and causing a loud thud and no doubt a smidgen of damage to the wooden floor. This act might have been funny once. Once. Sadly, the festivities came to a close around the midnight hour and I resolved to spend my Saturday immersed in the flavors of Charleston.
I emerged from a fitful sleep to see a warm, sunny day. I knew that meant only one thing. We must make a pilgrimage to Vickery’s. I gathered my friends and we headed off to Shem Creek, which is located alongside the water in Mt. Pleasant, just a short trip over the Cooper River from Charleston, a journey that has lost its excitement since the demolition of the rusty pile of steel that composed the previous bridge. Driving over that stucture taught you to appreciate life, since it was the closest you would probably come to death on any given day you crossed it. Once we arrived at the restaurant, our original intent was to sit in the deck area, but when hurricane force winds blew one of my friends out into the harbor we were forced to move inside. We were unable to recover the body, but we did have an impromptu burial ritual involving a coffee can and grandma's ashes. I figured they were just sitting there rotting on the mantle anyhow. After the funeral, those of us still amongst the living returned to Vickery’s and sat down for seafood as fresh as any you can find excepting the bowels of a sperm whale. At any number of restaurants located on Shem Creek, you can watch out the window as shrimp boats arrive with their daily stack of murdered crustaceans. Yes, murder most foul. And delicious! For our meal, we tried some Charleston staples like boiled shrimp, fried green tomatoes, crab cakes, and a Cuban sandwich (which I am told is from Cuba, but I believe that is a Communist lie planted by Fidel Castro in order to facilitate the overthrow of the American government). Everyone was satisfied by the meal and we quickly forgot about our dead friend Donnie, who loved bowling. Fuck it dude. We paid the bill and returned to our domicile to prepare for the wedding festivities.
The wedding ceremony was held at four inside the MUSC chapel in downtown Charleston. After a nice fifteen minute nap in my pew, it was off to the reception, which was held back in Mt. Pleasant at Boone Hall Plantation, where locals tell me the Union surrendered to the Confederacy, bringing an end to the Civil War. After the owners hid their slaves in the basement, we were allowed onto the property and got the party started right, some would say we got the party started quickly. The whores de overs (if you can’t spell if, sillify it) were exceptional. The tuxedo-clad servants brought us she crab soup and fried sweet potato balls, topped with a delightful mustard-based barbecue pork. After the main course of beer and wine, we moved on to the desert dishes (or as some call it, supper), the most impressive of which was a take on the local piece de resistance, shrimp and grits. Shrimp and grits is usually served in a dish with cheese of some sort, but in this instance the shrimp was served in something of a gumbo, with the grits in a separate dish, to be added and mixed at your leisure, sweet Larry. The result was a taste explosion that caused my tongue to become as happy as a pedophile at a 4H convention. I ate until my stomach could take no more, developed a case of bulimia, and quickly went back for more like a drunk to a bottomless trough of booze (dare to dream). Suddenly, the slaves broke into open rebellion and we were asked to leave. The night ended all too soon and so did my excursion into the realm of Charleston cuisine. I had learned and eaten a lot, but knowing Upstate chefs are catching up to the talented Lowcountry mavericks (word copyrighted by John McCain) of Southern cooking gives me a reason to return - and to gorge myself like a disgusting pig wherever I may go in our vibrant community.