My love of restaurants came long before my love of cooking. Many of my best childhood memories happened at the B&S Café in Deep Run, North Carolina, over barbecue and hand pies called applejacks; at the Sheraton in Kinston after church for Belgian waffles; and at the Baron and the Beef on Friday nights with a Shirley Temple, a salad bar run, and a steak. Perhaps restaurants make me feel more worldly. Or maybe I just love being served. In any case, eating out has always been my favorite extracurricular activity.
The summer after my sophomore year at North Carolina State, I interned at CBS in New York by day and devoted myself to sleuthing with the Zagat guide by night and weekend. While darting my way to every top-ranked restaurant in the city’s twenty-five-dollar-and-under category that I could reach by train, I became known among my fellow interns and even a few CBS executives as “the girl to ask where you should eat.”
I took great pride in this reputation, writing up notes on every spot I tried and never leaving my apartment without the little burgundy Zagat paperback tucked into my bag. Years later, when I moved to the Big Apple for real, I resumed my pastime with a more mature enthusiasm, not only scouring the city for tasty meals that fit my skinny pocketbook, but also keeping my eyes peeled for restaurants that might suit the fatter wallets of all the people who had promised to visit me. I even called the toll-free number on the back of the Zagat once and left a message asking for a job. Before long, my family and my friends’ families started enlisting me to plan their eating itinerary in the city. Inevitably, I received an invitation to dine, too.
But before all that, following my junior year, I had set my sights on spending a summer in Charleston, South Carolina, with a few of my girlfriends. I had arranged the whole thing around a possible internship at the CBS affiliate there, but when that fell through and I instead snagged a job serving ribs at Sticky Fingers on Meeting Street, I was without a doubt the only one in my family who was pleased.
For me, this turn of events would bring a chance to party by the beach, with a roommate who drove a convertible, in a city that looked like a movie set. I would also be earning money rather than professional credibility. That meant I could eat just about anywhere I wanted. And I did.
From my very first meal in Charleston that summer—a steak salad at Vickery’s—I knew the local dining landscape suited me. Sure, New York City and its Zagat guide offered an exhilarating glimpse into all the places I could eat, but flipping through its pages also demoralized me a little. I knew I’d never get to experience even a quarter of the restaurants celebrated there. Much as I loved putting a check by the places I had eaten, sometimes the exercise felt futile and small.
But here, on Charleston’s compact peninsula, restaurants dotted every corner and ran through every alley—this was a food scene I could wrap my mouth around. And so, in the days before the reign of FIG and the dawn of Husk, I treated eating and drinking around town as if it were my job. I relished shrimp and grits for the first time at Carolina’s, took shots out of mini bottles at Blind Tiger, washed down fried oysters with beer at Bowens Island, got my picture taken on actual film with the coconut cake from the Peninsula Grill, stumbled late at night into the Kickin’ Chicken, and woke myself up with coffee from Kudu.
The time was formative, and transformative, for who I am as an eater and a chef. If home is where the restaurants are, I returned to Deep Run after that summer considering Charleston my sophisticated home away from home.
Twenty-six years later, I’m back doing the same thing on the peninsula. I still work in restaurants—now two with my name behind them. I still eat out way more than the average person. And my heart still quickens at the thought of being “the girl to ask where to eat.”
First and foremost, I try all the new restaurants I can. In Charleston, it’s a hard job to keep up with, but one a country girl is willing to do. Otherwise, if I want a place where the food and the vibe are invigorating and I don’t want to get in the car, I mosey down the block to Ma’am Saab, plant myself at the bar, and order a few Pakistani small plates, including the seasonal chaat, as well as a cool, colorful cocktail that always seems to come in a remarkable glass.
If I have family or friends in town (or am making a recommendation to others who do), I suggest Lewis Barbecue. People can eat inside or out under huge oak trees. The sides don’t take a back seat. (And if I’m being honest, it feels safer to suggest a place that specializes in brisket rather than pulled pork to my fellow Eastern North Carolinians.)
I have celebrated the past ten birthdays at Chez Nous—not because I planned it per se, but because I am inevitably in Charleston for the wine and food festival on the big day, and I can never think of anywhere else I’d rather decompress and dine. My move is to make a reservation for lunch. It feels civilized, almost as if I’m in another country and eat like that every day. If you go with at least one other person, you can experience the entire menu, because there are two options in each category (and you can’t go wrong with either of them).
I get my sandwiches at Legend Deli, because I fell for the concept of the sandwich artist in the early days of Subway, and the ones at Legend bring the creativity I crave when I’m craving cheese squished between bread. Plus, they write encouraging notes like “To the legend, Vivian” or “Stay legendary, Vivian.” For at least the first year of my occasional lunches there, I thought these messages were just for me. Turns out, it’s Legend Deli’s thing.
A good steak and its trappings ground me, so if I’m homesick, I walk a half mile to Oak Steakhouse and order the beef, potato preparation, and green that suits my mood, along with a brown liquor cocktail to sip while I wait. Then I trot my fancy meat-and-two back to my hotel room to enjoy at the desk next to my TV.
Usually, though, I’m in Charleston to eat my own food. For a person who dines out to expand her repertoire and absorb the intellectual property of other chefs, that might seem stifling. But when I stumble down to Handy & Hot in the morning to mix our blueberry chia pudding with our banana yogurt and I’m granted a new latte to try, I appreciate knowing what I like and being known. When I taste through new menu items at Lenoir and worry I’m ruining my appetite for later, I remind myself that my restaurants are the reason I get to be here in the first place. And if I don’t make my 8:30 reservation at the hot new spot, I can check it out next time. After all, I won’t go hungry. I’ve got the best burger and fries on the peninsula right downstairs at my very own bar.
