Well, that depends.

Should advance planning, fine breeding, or pure luck land you a seat at the elegant raw bar, then The Darling may just bump other King Street-faves down a notch or two on your list. Hip and sleek, the choice seats provide front-row viewing of both passing traffic and the oyster shucking itself.

Offering six mostly-East-Coast raw oyster options, local littleneck clams, and a handful of shellfish-based dishes, raw or thereabouts, the raw bar is by far The Darling’s strength. Happy hour even sees one variety of bivalve (James River oysters during both visits) knocked down to $1 a pop. Light and mild, the oysters arrived ice cold and accompanied by cocktail sauce, lemons, and a refreshing ginger mignonette. You can’t go wrong there.

By and large a sure thing, the raw bar menu does contain one notable land mine, the poke ($13). Ubiquitous in the Hawaiian islands, traditional poke — rhymes with OK — is a simple dish of chopped raw tuna, sweet onions, and limu (a salty sea algae) with the predominant flavors of sesame oil and soy sauce. The briny, nutty dish can be made with other fish or even squid, and is always served chilled and never fails to be light yet substantial. What a difference a few ingredients make. The Darling’s reinvented version is downright freaky, with the innocent enough-sounding combo of tuna, green grapes, soy sauce, and sesame seeds somehow coalescing into a sweet, yet acrid flavor sensation reminiscent of absinthe. Kudos for the unabashed creativity, but no.

Turning my attention to the primary menu, appetizer options lean more toward a casual fry house, with hush puppies, fried oysters, and clam chowder all making an appearance. Ask one of the energetic, helpful servers for an opinion and you will surely be directed toward the creole shrimp ($11) appetizer. Billed by seemingly everyone — my waiter, the gentleman dropping the dish, a passer-by — as “the best thing on the menu,” it’s safe to say expectations were high.

Ten sauteed shrimp arrive plated over two fried, rice croquettes and smothered in a bacony, buttery mustard sauce. It’s lush and rich with a hint of spice and too much salt, but nothing extraordinary. Best thing on the menu? Huh.

Similarly, the spicy shrimp salad ($7) — cream cheese, house-made crackers — is an act of “what you see is what you get” simplicity. A scoop of dip featuring chopped shrimp mixed with cream cheese, onion, and cayenne pepper is served with some simple crackers. Although not technically the same thing, pimento cheese fans will likely approve.

Personally, I’d be far more inclined to guide guests toward the delicate snapper ceviche ($13). A fresh, balanced option, the mild fish is paired with small bits of Cara Cara orange segments and finished with piquant lime juice, a touch of fennel, and a dusting of zippy chili powder. Less cured than many traditional ceviche preparations, the light, bright flavors are evocative of crudo or even sashimi and provide a welcome break from the more heavy-handed offerings.

Case in point, the oyster spaghetti ($21). Also billed as a menu highlight, think carbonara with five tiny steamed oysters and you’re pretty much there — it’s surprisingly bland yet salty. The bacon was flabby and under cooked, while the beautifully diced celery root was unexpectedly tough. There’s probably a good idea in there somewhere, but the execution fell flat.

The Darling itself has a conspicuous yin-yang thing going on, with two polar-opposite dining areas separated by the large bar. To the left, you’ll find a dark, somber space with navy blue walls and heavy wood furniture. On the right, white honeycomb tile floors and picture windows are flanked by green booths and result in a vibrant, welcoming vibe. It feels like two different restaurants, but perhaps the incongruence is intentional.

The post It’s All About the Window-Framed Raw Bar at The Darling (Charleston City Paper) appeared first on Vanessa Wolf, MBA.

The Cure Rockefeller ($12) beckoned. If you’re not familiar with the traditional version, the dish offers fresh oysters topped with spinach or other greens, a Pernod-flavored cream sauce, and a sprinkling of parmesan cheese, all of which is then broiled until bubbly and hot. It’s the kind of thing someone would order on Mad Men. The Cure version is not that. Rather, this is the oyster dish for people who love cheese. Covered in thick bacon bits, onions, and a gruyère mornay, it’s essentially French onion soup on the half shell.

Although it’s clear the restaurant is going for upscale elegance, somewhere — perhaps in the vicinity of the dark wood paneling or the rustic chandelier ceiling fans — things veer a little vintage. The same can be said of the beef tartare ($16). Chopped raw beef arrives on a bed of shredded romaine and is accompanied by individual mounds of diced red onions, chopped hard-boiled eggs, capers, and dijon mustard, plus slices of thin, seasoned crostini. Although I prefer my tartare pre-assembled, after gathering a smattering of the ingredients on the delicate toast, the flavors were fine but lacked the salty-sour balance I was hoping for.

Happily, I found it in The Cure salad ($12). A generous portion of kale and romaine are tossed with a Champagne vinaigrette and topped with dried cherries, sweet onions, and marcona almonds. The lightly sweet, tart mixture is then garnished with pieces of char-grilled artichoke and battered and friend eggplant squares. Not just an inventive and original option for vegetarian diners, this is a darn good salad by any measure.

The fresh mozzarella and roma tomatoes ($12) salad, however? Oy. Plated atop shredded lettuce, five hard, half moons of mozzarella alternate with thin slices of Roma tomatoes and are drizzled with balsamic. The menu boasts house-pulled cheese, which somehow arrived just as dry, flavorless, and symmetrically round as something pulled from a package labeled “Polly-O.” Disappointing.

Service is a crap shoot. On my first visit, the waitress was enthusiastic and speedy, offering suggestions and keeping things moving. My immediate neighbors, however, had a different server and fared less well. As I lifted the first bite of oyster toward my mouth, a voice next to my table whispered, “We’ve been here over 45 minutes with no food.” Awkward. When the hour mark hit, their longing stares and Pavlovian drooling became uncomfortable in a “feed these people!” kind of way.

I held back the temptation to ask the guests, “Would you like some salad? Maybe they have some bread back there? Do you want me to ask? I think I have some Tic Tacs in my purse…”

Their entrees eventually arrived, so I was able to consider the Chicken Citron ($18) in peace. Billed by the waitress as a riff on chicken picatta, it is just that. Three dainty chicken tenderloins are served with angel hair pasta and a decadent lemony beurre blanc. It’s delicate yet rich and a viable option for anyone not into red meat. However, if steaks make you feverish, Cure has got, well, the cure. The Kansas City strip ($33) comes simply garnished with butter and a side of steak sauce. And anything more would have been unnecessary. Cooked as requested and incredibly moist, this is simple, satisfying, red-meat perfection.

The accompanying Brussels sprouts are also of a different era. Served lightly cooked and ensconced in a thick brown gravy, they were reminiscent of a poutine more than a vegetable. Similarly, the prime rib ($30) fell short on execution. Ordered medium rare, what arrived was quite a bit more cooked. However, when pointed out to our vegetarian waitress, she merely shrugged and stated, “I wouldn’t know.”

The attentive and affable owner soon stopped by, but our interaction made it clear this was the least-cooked slice they could deliver. The slab of meat is accompanied by a large, round scoop of intensely garlicky mashed potatoes and a bowl of creamed kale au gratin boasting a split pea color and a sauce-to-vegetable ratio of 2:1. Heavy-handed and old school all the way, one imagines Don Draper enjoying this meal along with a half-pack of cigarettes and some of the restaurant’s extensive bourbon collection.

Between the dishes and the clientele, Cure feels like a steakhouse that has weathered many decades without a single change to the menu. Perhaps I’m just not the target audience, but when a perfectly prepared steak and inventive salad are the goal, I’ve finally got a non-Halloween destination for my vintage leisure wear.

The post Cure’s Nostalgic Plates Will Suit Those In the Mood For a Retro Meal (Charleston City Paper) appeared first on Vanessa Wolf, MBA.

Int. Codfather chip shop — day

CHIPPER (standing beside a vat of bubbling oil, but not petting a cat because that would be weird.)

You’ve known of me for several months, but this is the first time you came to me for counsel, for fish. But let’s be frank here: you never wanted my friendship. And you were afraid to be in my debt.

CUSTOMER

I didn’t want to get into trouble. Bathing suit season is coming and there is no way that’s an advisable portion size for a piece of cod and …

CHIPPER

I understand. You found paradise in Charleston, had a good trade, made a good living. The restaurants provided for you. And there were grocery stores during the off hours. You didn’t need a friend of me. But now you come to me and you say — “Adam give me fish” — but you don’t ask with respect. You don’t offer friendship. You don’t even think to call me Codfather.

CUSTOMER

Be my chipper —

(*drops to one knee*)

— Codfather?

CHIPPER

Some day, and that day may never come, I’ll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, accept these mushy peas to eat with your meal.

FADE TO BLACK

As I pull up to the unassuming white brick building in the Naval Yard area of North Charleston, this is what’s going through my mind. The restaurant’s name, The Codfather, triggers it. But far from a mafia-front, this Reynolds Avenue restaurant is a fish and chips shop and the Codfather’s menu is as short as it is sweet.

Fish and chips – $10
Fish only – $7
Chips only – $4
Mushy peas – $2
Gravy – $1
Beverage – $1

There’s been talk of meat pies and other menu additions, but so far it’s just fish. Regardless, it’s hard to imagine anything upstaging the current offering because, oh, what a thing those fish and chips are.

Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but these filets arrive piping hot. Golden brown and vaguely reminiscent of a potato stick in flavor, the light, crisp batter achieves the rare state of perfection most efforts only dream about. The moist, steaming filet of cod inside hails from the icy waters of the Barents Sea off the northern coasts of Norway and Russia.

h Adam Randall, the owner/chef of the Codfather, even knows the names of the boats that caught the fish. No, he doesn’t have a first-hand relationship with the fisherman, but an environmentally conscious streak: “It’s printed right on the side of the box, so I can’t help but read it when I’m breaking them down for recycling.”

Each flip-flop sized portion is served atop a generous mound of lightly browned and equally crisp french fries. If you like to gild the lily, a thick layer of mashed split peas can be smeared across the crunchy filet, and the mushy texture adds an interesting, salty contrast.

Similarly, the gravy lends a lush salinity to each toothy bite. The woman dishing up the fish is quick to note that the sauce is the only item not made in-house, but in this case that’s a good call. Whatever it is, it’s delightful. No need to fix what isn’t broken.

Service is chatty and friendly, and Randall comes around to check on customers when his cooking duties allow.

As a final note, it’s hard not to feel warmly toward a brick-and-mortar chip shop that refrains from beverage-based extortion. A George Washington in exchange for a cold bottled water or can of soda is more than fair, just another reason to wish away Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday awaiting the return of the Codfather to his post.

Until then, you can simply post your feelings on his Facebook page and maybe borrow a line from Peter Clemenza: “I love you with all-a my heart. If I don’t see-a you again soon, I’m-a gonna die.”

The post The Codfather Brings Proper Fish and Chips to North Charleston (Charleston City Paper) appeared first on Vanessa Wolf, MBA.

Unfortunately, as I discovered within minutes of ordering, Istanbul has very little to do with it. I love Turkish food. I’ve been all over the country on multiple occasions, but Istanbul Shish Kabobs is more reminiscent of a New York City street corner halal food cart.

The kofta sandwich ($7.99) finds a heavy-handed pita smothering a small portion of the fragrant spiced meatballs. Possessing a powerful cumin flavor, they’re cooked to a pink in the middle and pleasingly authentic. Sadly, however, the majority of the sandwich is actually just iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and pita bread. The smidgen of tahini sauce, although rich and bright, isn’t plentiful enough to balance the bland drought.

Things fare no better with the lamb kabob sandwich ($8.99), a doppelganger of the former with a change of meat. Dry as a bone, the lightly smoky, yet gamy lamb flavor was only perceivable when removed from the smothering volumes of tasteless, unleavened bread.

Whether part of a conspiracy or not, the sandwiches are accompanied by some limp fries. Possessed of a strange, funky flavor, they’re damp, mealy, and a flashback to your elementary school cafeteria years. All that’s missing are some fish sticks and a tiny carton of milk.

Although the staff is notably friendly and clearly aim to please, the location feels inauspicious and somewhat haunted by the restaurant of yesteryear. Save for the two large spools of shawarma greeting you upon entry, the maroon, vinyl-covered, wooden booths and diner counter still screams “Huddle House.” So does the mustachioed chef statue outside, enthusiastically displaying a blank chalkboard sign into perpetuity.

The other thing that doesn’t feel particularly Turkish is the menu itself, veering more into basic doner kebab/shawarma-shop country than anything. Where are the cheesy su boregi, the piquant dolma, the lamb and garlic-stuffed eggplants, the rich and spicy borek, and all the other savory pastries? If nothing else, where is the yogurt? The Ottoman Empire is regrettably underrepresented.

While trying to choose between the Turkish chicken kebab sandwich ($7.99) and the white chicken kebab sandwich ($7.99), I inquired as to the difference between them and was told, “Turkish seasoning.”

Based on flavor alone, it appears Turkish seasoning may be a mix of oregano and cumin seed, heavy on the oregano. With a touch of char, yet still moist, the scant portion of chicken was drowned out by the powerful herb and the heavy-handed bread. The addition of pickles helped brighten the overabundance of meatless bites, but it just wasn’t enough. Maybe some hummus would help?

Speaking of which, it’s sold as a side ($3.99), and it’s rich with a high ratio of sesame tahini. By far, it’s the best thing going at Istanbul.

If you order as I did and try the hummus over schawarma plate ($10.99), you’ll realize the dish is named exactly as it’s served. Moreover, you may find yourself longing for some of that pita bread, as this plate doesn’t come with any.

Maybe there’s hope in the form of the falafel sandwich ($5.99)? A foodstuff with just as many high notes as terrible renditions, one always longs to relive the memory of their first Amsterdam-style mouthful. Sadly, this isn’t that. Gritty, greasy, and accompanied by the now usual suspects of lettuce, tomato, and a spritz of tahini, it was exceedingly disappointing. So much so, that I went back to try it again in case (fingers crossed) the first was just an off-day. No such luck. The encore — in the form of the falafel appetizer ($3.99) — arrived less greasy, but still wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. Formed in a “top o’ the muffin” shape, it was almost impenetrable. Thankfully, the appetizer arrived with ample — and perfectly made — tahini sauce, rendering this the second-best item I had.

Bottom line? In a city that has many solid takes on Mediterranean — the excellent Leyla’s Lebanese, the great falafel at Ali Baba just down the road, Taziki’s with appealing ambience and price point — there are far better options.

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Photo by Vanessa Wolf

It’s been roughly two years since Anson Restaurant suffered a kitchen fire, but if the crowds present on my visits were any indicator, its fan base has been merely biding time. Anson is back.

Reinvented in an elegant fashion, Anson’s sophistication extends to returning chef Jeremy Holst’s menu. Take, for example, the roasted Carolina cup oysters ($15). On the palate, the first layer to hit the taste buds is that of the rich, tomato-y butter and country ham. The next wave brings the sweet, briny freshness of the oyster itself — the inimitable highlight. That taste is followed by the powerful, almost bitter bite of celery leaves. The five bivalves are at once simple and ornate. If you’re looking for the experience of a Bloody Mary in amuse-bouche form, this has got that going on.

A little less high-falutin’, the four perfectly cooked, cornmeal fried green tomatoes ($12) arrive topped with a decadent layer of creamy pimento cheese and some toothsome, sweet, smoky bacon jam. The dish is Southern, sentimental, and surprisingly superb. If you don’t think you like fried green tomatoes, this is the version to try.

Photo by Vanessa Wolf

Anson’s fried South Carolina quail ($16) is another intriguing dish. Plated on a bed of spicy Charleston Gold red rice with sausage notes, the accompanying cabbage is rich and buttery, but still retains some crunch. Not what I was expecting — in a good way — the fried quail itself is reminiscent of Korean fried chicken. Super crunchy with a saucy kick, there’s pretty much no ladylike way to get down with this bird. Surrender to the moment unless you’re wearing white. In that case, consider ferreting it into the bathroom where you can sort it all out privately.

Meanwhile, the she-crab soup ($10) arrives in the costume of a Southern belle. Although sweet and delicate, she’s also quite impolite. You know those mashed potato recipes that are half butter, half potato? This is the soup equivalent. The alfredo sauce of bisques, the she-crab soup is lush, sumptuous, and decadent as all get-out. If a crab were to aspire to meet its end as a dish, this would not be a bad way to go.

The refurbished Anson’s is nothing if not fancy. For better or worse, the straight-backed Shaker wood chairs of the pre-fire establishment have survived and are now painted gold. Apparently, much like the Terminator, you can’t keep an uncomfortable chair down. Meanwhile, the money spared on seating has been heavily invested in florid chandeliers and striking murals. The overall effect is ornate, if not palatial. And loud. Almost unnervingly so. Whether seated upstairs or down, the wood floors and high ceilings amplify the sound to a jarring effect. Maybe a whole bunch of cushions for those abusive Shaker chairs could help absorb the racket?

But rising above the noise level, the service is consistently above-par. Friendly, knowledgeable, and attentive, the staff are unobtrusively available whenever occasion might arise. And per their recommendation, I also tried the shrimp and grits ($12). The house-ground grits are topped with an elegant sauce of smoked tomatoes and Anson bacon. The light, sweet tomatoes are a perfect foil to the robust bacon, and both bring their own delicate smoky notes. The dainty shrimp are tender and delectable, but almost unnecessary. One of the best versions of shrimp and grits I’ve had, there’s no pretension here, just fully developed, well-balanced flavor.

In contrast, the signature fried flounder ($36) is way too sweet for my tastes. Reminiscent of General Tso’s, a little poking around revealed what may not be a coincidence. Originally created in the ’80s by Thai-Chinese chef Dan Kim of sister restaurant Garibalidis, the thin, flat fish is crisp fried, diamond filleted, and coated with an apricot shallot sauce. The whole fish sans head is served. While the meat comes gently off the bone, I’d personally get the sweet apricot sauce on the side next time.

The slow-baked grouper ($36) is wholly Southern in its execution, however. Topped with grilled okra, the fish seems to have been slow-cooked in oil, rendering it richer and more unctuous than the usual preparation. Unfortunately, it was also quite salty. As was the accompanying Charleston Gold rice Hoppin’ John and the collards. Although otherwise technically well-prepared, the overall salinity kept the dish from shining as brightly as the others.

Upon my first encounter with the Ashley Farms chicken ($22), one thought crossed my mind: “Are you sure that’s a chicken?” Although the diminutive breast/wing is not much larger than that of the quail, the flavor is bigger and more succulent than its larger relatives. Roasted and served on a smear of light, creamy sweet potatoes, my only wish was for more, more, more.

In contrast, the accompanying ration of Brussels sprouts are downright indulgent. Still, something is off about them: Sweet, smoky, and even a little bitter, they pretty much taste like sprouts covered in barbecue sauce.

Rounding out the entrees was the hand-cut pasta ($26). It’s worth every dollar, as well as your full respect. The pappardelle is topped with a generous portion of braised short ribs. There’s a refined heartiness here, most notably uplifted by the brilliant use of tarragon. It’s simple and robust, yet polished and urbane.

It took a while for Anson’s to recover from the Christmas Eve fire that brought things to a two-year standstill, but the space has been revitalized in triumphant, although occasionally deafening, form. More importantly, with a menu filled with familiar staples and innovative new ideas, it’s a comeback worthy of your attention.

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