"Charleston at Table" is a limited series by Thomas Ellen. It is in the fashion of Eugene Briffault's "Paris à Table".
Click here to read the other parts in the series.
--
The South today has little of what can be called imperial ambition. Meaning, it does not seek to foist its habits and customs upon the various other regions. Yes, country music is ascendant, a genre that codes as Southern, with every type of artist trying their hand at it—but it was not imposed through any means on the people. One could call it organic, I suppose.
In terms of food, gold rice was our Caesar—in Brooklyn, I have seen it served in arancini. But golden rice is no longer produced at such a scale and likely never will be. If the South—and the South is Charleston, and Charleston is the South—ever deigns to take the stage again with mighty sway, it could do no wrong by starting with a serving of biscuits.
For biscuits are the Southern counter to the bagel, that most ridiculous of baked goods, which seems to be constantly gaining ground in this city. The bagel is like a middle-aged man whose hair has grown thin, asking you for directions to the dullest place, then your opinion of the most tasteless restaurant, and then if you’re from here and if you like it—every chew is a burdensome question that is answered with strain. He is distasteful to the eye and causing great pain in your jaw at having to be so specific with him, constantly stressing right here and left there and two lights up, and you can’t possibly miss it, and yes, I live here, and I have to go, please. You only want him gone after so many misunderstandings and repetitions.
But the biscuit, the biscuit is a golden-haired youth with a stronger pedigree than the bagel—it wasn’t boiled in some vat of city water; the biscuit was gently caressed by flame after being molded by a dear mother of us all. It is fit for the soldier, the sailor, the peasant, and the gentleman.
The bagel? The bagel is middle management. The bagel is the striving class, thinking he will become a partner and thinking he will decide what is served in the breakroom. Plain, garlic, sesame, salmon, scallion cream cheese, and on and on—the multiplicity and variety is its very undoing. Give us butter, generously lathered about and upon. A dairy pomade. Man and bovine, his truly sacred cow.
The biscuit is at once noble and common. The very name is older than our era—biscotatus: twice-baked. One does not return from a day in the blind and demand a bagel; he craves biscuits and gravy—for biscuits are the viaticum of man properly aligned with his nature. They are, in a sense, an eternal return to youth when made properly. Biscuits are prepared for the family, for the generations gathered; bagels are for the man alone.
Meanwhile, bagels are a profanity. They are for the cubicle, for the man shuffling down the crowded street to his dead-end job, and the dreary gloom of the morning commute.
If Charleston were to assert itself again upon the further regions, it could rely upon such establishments as Callie’s Hot Little Biscuit. To begin, this is not an endorsement, a recommendation, nor an ode to their quality. It is a recognition of a basic fact: in order to stifle and subdue further advances of the bagel, it is necessary to have the ability to mass produce at a scale that does not detract too much from the taste. Callie’s finds itself in this auspicious position.
I wish them well.
To further elaborate upon this flattening age, Charleston, like so many cities, has taken up that most dreadful form of breakfast: the déjeuner-dînatoire—more commonly known as brunch. For a solid decade, brunch reigned on the Eastern Seaboard. Yet, it has subsided in popularity—one does not sense the same excitement when another restaurant announces a new brunch menu as there was in the past. Indeed, when an establishment does start serving brunch, as Husk, La Banque, and Sorelle have done in the past year, it seems to be more an act of desperation or surrender. These are fine places on their own—their concepts are executed well, their fare is excellent, and the quality is consistent. Why add a meal entirely different? — and a meal so lacking in sophistication: eggs done so many ways and French toast and pancakes and waffles and bacon and sausage and mimosas and biscuits and a bevy of sandwiches along with plates with inclinations towards an entrée at supper—it is all too confused, I daresay even ridiculous.
I do not pretend to understand the economic intricacies; I am only confused at the desire to serve a meal so lacking in order. From the items on the plate to the time they are served, there is no coherence to brunch. It upends any design for the day, for host and guest, not only by arriving at such an odd hour but by being itself so heavy and long to digest.
If brunch is so much of an inconvenience as described, then it is a meal only taken by those of a certain socioeconomic background. In Charleston, it is for the Laptop Class, those who work remotely along the pools of The Jasper or The Guild. It can only be enjoyed by those who have the weekends free and who can plan a week weeks in advance. It is often ordered extemporaneously after a long evening, but this further emphasizes who is walking in 82 Queen with a small entourage: it is for those who can spend on short notice.
Tourists demand brunch. It befits Charleston’s schedule, as the stores along King Street open around 10:00, so breakfast cannot be taken too early by the traveler if he wants to shop after his morning meal. Otherwise, he will awkwardly loiter, peering into windows and pulling on door handles, thinking a shop is open. Therefore, a late and filling meal is good for the visitor. He can walk it off on a tour or as he ambles south of Broad with no particular place in mind. Brunch will carry him through the day until their reservation in the evening.
And that is breakfast; it is the meal that sustains. It is the one meal of the three that has the future in mind: how will this make me feel? How soon will I get hungry again? This applies to the tourist, who strolls some miles in the day, and to any who work in an occupation demanding physical exertion—police officers, firemen, construction workers, et cetera. As for those with their very many degrees, they take a packaged granola bar or a yogurt. Eating too heavily will cloud their mind and cause fatigue at their less strenuous jobs.
Do you linger over your morning meal? Do you pick at it? —or shovel it in? Do you sip your coffee or tea while watching the news? Your answer to these will reveal more than most would like to share with a stranger.
As of yet, the Implied Warranty of Habitability does not require a fridge or cooking appliances. A property owner need only provide the essential services of heat, plumbing, and sanitation. However, any landlord with an average business acumen would install an oven, a stove, and a fridge in their unit. And so, most everyone you encounter on your walk or drive has what can reasonably be called a kitchen—there is a place to store food and a device to cook with.
For most of history, this was not the case. One had to stop somewhere to get a bite. Now, with every man his own chef, breakfast has become the most concealed, the most private, of meals. We roll out of bed at whatever hour our station permits and decide either to start the day with our own creation or to sit and wait for someone else to fry our egg.
Having breakfast served is likely to invite the most judgment. Can you not boil an egg? Are scrambled eggs that difficult? Do you not have the money to purchase a toaster? Are you so lazy? Breakfast is the simplest meal to prepare, yes. Of course, you wake up in your home with your kitchen and its appliances and can turn them on and open the fridge and bring out the eggs and the bacon and simply lay them on the pan on the stove and turn on the heat. Truly, it is the simplest meal. But all these judgements should be dismissed, for those who judge others for dining out are the poor of spirit, the stingy in all things, none fit to swell a progress nor start a scene or two.
And in Charleston, meals are often taken at restaurants—for locals and visitors alike. For breakfast, options are fewer than for the larger dinner and supper. There are the three previously mentioned—Husk, La Banque, and Sorelle—but these are weekend brunches. Miller's All Day has a location near Broad Street on King. There is nothing bad to say about the quality of the food or the service. If there were to be one restaurant remembered a century from now for its morning meal, it will be Miller's. The current generation will tell the future generation of a place that once served good fried chicken biscuits along with changing specials, all while hosting their guests in a swirling dining room.
82 Queen always has a seat available at the bar on Sunday mornings. This seat is too low compared to the bar, however. You will sit in an uncomfortable position while eating decent fare at a decent price. The music will grate, but it is better than most conversations I have overheard while dining here. To hear feminine excitement at one line of Eliot recited over a coffee spoon is enough to kill an appetite.
Then, of course, there is Poogan’s Porch. I will only say it is fine. It seems designed as if five middle-aged Midwesterners were asked what they imagine a Charleston breakfast would be like without ever having been.
To the poor dog who haunts it, I hope you find rest.