"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.
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At an hour past noon on a Friday in the spring, a woman walks to the north corner of the intersection of Coming and Bogard. She is alone, and few to none are about this block—strolling up and down Coming Street is hardly anyone’s idea of a peaceful time. This woman has the appearance of a hiker, with a narrow bag strapped over her shoulder and her clothes light and loose. She is wearing a hat with a not too wide brim to cover her face. Sunglasses protect her eyes. On her feet, flip-flops.
Is she going to the beach? Or returning thence? Perhaps she just came from some luxurious pool nestled in some refuge of dryads? That could be it. But wait: it appears she is stopping at the corner; she is looking around—is she casing a house? No, don’t call the authorities—no one likes a snitch, plus there are cameras everywhere: our own self-imposed panopticon. Her appearance is neither refined nor downtrodden, but the ubiquitous bourgeois fashion of our times: relaxed athleisure. What is that she is doing? She’s opening her bag and—pulling out a folding chair. She pops it open and sets it just to the side of the threshold of a chamfered corner entry. You expect her next move is to lay out her wares, some personal hobby of hers designing jewelry and selling them on street corners. Instead, she pulls out a book and begins to read.
An hour passes. A middle-aged couple approaches the corner. They are dressed in flowery garb, a model of Tommy Bahama. The man carries two narrow bags similar to the one carried by the woman still reading at the corner. And just like her, they pop open chairs. They take their seats nearby, mere feet up Coming Street.
Thirty minutes pass. A young woman strides in. She is wearing a tight top, her arms bare. Her shorts are short. Her brunette hair is pulled back tight. On her back is a narrow bag. Is she going to or from the gym? No, she walks past the three idlers, opens her bag, and produces a chair. She takes her seat and pulls out her cell phone. She begins to scroll.
Fifteen minutes pass. Three even younger women appear. They are practically in their swimwear. Surely—surely—they are going to the beach on this Friday afternoon. Those bags they carry are typical of the beachgoer. But, again, they walk up Coming, past the four idlers, and take their seats in the shade of a dwarf tree. They take out laptops and begin to click and type and scroll.
Forty-five minutes pass. What was once seven idlers is now twenty. You count thirteen chairs placed on the narrow sidewalk up Coming Street. Interspersed towards the tail of this queue are the seven standers. Some have their arms crossed, others wave them about to keep themselves cool in this heat. Of these twenty, perhaps twelve of them look dressed for something other than the beach. None wear jackets or ties; the dress is informal. The ages range from eighteen to sixty. You begin to wonder what they are waiting for.
An hour passes. Coming Street is now slammed with vehicles barreling to the on ramp of 26. What was twenty idlers is now close to one hundred. After about the seventy-fifth in the line, the dress is slightly more formal. Girls wear dresses. Men wear collars. There is a young man, could be sixteen at most, standing and waiting alone. There is a young blonde in a tasteful blue dress. She sits alone on the edge of a raised landscaping bed of a house set off Coming Street. There is another blonde, this one shimmering, having absorbed the sun, wearing high-end sunglasses, the lenses a light amber. Her dress is chic, stylish. A group of middle-aged men are deep in discussion. Their posture reveals they have only just met. There is a gaggle of five women in their late twenties in the very rear. They look up the line with concern. One tries counting the individuals in front.
Thirty minutes pass. The door at the corner opens. Those sitting stand. A lurch, an accordion effect. The faces are now all ebullient of those in the line. One by one, two by two, three by three, they are let into Chubby Fish, number twenty-one on North America’s fifty best restaurants in 2026, number nineteen on North America’s best fifty restaurants in 2025, featured in The New York Times fifty best restaurants in America in 2025 and 2026, a semifinalist for Outstanding Restaurant in 2025 and 2026 by the James Beard Foundation, named one of Bon Appétit’s Best New Restaurants in 2019, a Michelin-recommended restaurant in 2025, and helmed by James London who was named a finalist for Best Chef: Southeast by the James Beard Foundation in 2024.
The first in line, the woman who arrived an hour past noon, is a business owner. Her business? Standing in line at Chubby Fish. Her customers arrive and take their table. The middle-aged couple? They are here to dine for the first time, after having been hired as line standers by some app operated from across the continent. That young woman? She works for the woman who was first in line. She has never met her before. They only communicated online. Those young women with laptops? They are college students and sorority sisters. Their elder sister tasked them with standing in line for three different parties who desired a table. A cut of their profits goes to the one who arranged the deal—street walking of a different kind. There are those in line who have travelled from Ladson—they too once stood in line for others, but now they get to have a taste of their own. There are those in line who have just arrived from New York—they read about Chubby Fish on their flight down and decided on the tarmac that their first stop after dropping off their luggage in their hotel would be to stand in line. That young blonde in the tasteful dress? She is a local girl, grew up here. She is downcast, for she knows from experience she is not likely to get a table for her mother and her mother’s friend. The chic one? A local too. Her family were some of the first to move to Daniel Island. She jokes that the head chef is not even here tonight—he’s at an event at The Cooper, freshly opened. The gaggle of girls in their late twenties? Here for a girls’ trip. They don’t know where else to go—Chubby Fish was the first thing to pop up on their search, and they searched no further. Learning they will likely not get a table, they begin scrolling for something else to do. Husk? On a Friday? Maybe they can get a seat at the bar.
What awaits them all? We can only dream.
This is all that needs to be said about supper in Charleston during this age.