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How’s that song go again?

Ever since I was a young girl
I loved the dining hall
From Soho down to Brighton
I must have ate at them all
But I ain’t seen nothing like him
In any reclaimed brownstone
That bearded, chef kid
Sure makes a mean marrow bone

Chef Sean Brock’s escargot-stuffed marrow bone with grilled bread and parsley ($15) may be one of the more intimidating-sounding options on both the lunch and dinner menus (the calf’s head soup is the likely victor), but it’s also outstanding. The marrow adds a rich element usually provided by butter, and there’s the lingering taste of tarragon at the finish. It’s elegant and unabashedly French in a way the French never even conceived. The bright flavors of parsley and paper-thin red onion contrast with the earthy richness and perfectly balance each bite. It’s incredible. And arguably genius. A chunk of femur never held such allure.

Clapping his hands together in glee, on one visit my friendly and enthusiastic waiter was delighted to help me pick from the menu. Flying high on his first recommendation, the foie gras and chicken liver parfait ($15) soon arrived in a small, silver, presumably-tongue-in-cheek can. It’s a good thing I don’t work in the service industry as I’m not sure I’d be able to control the urge to sing, “Meow, meow, meow, meow…” while popping this dish’s top. Granted, it’s more Fancy Feast than Meow Mix, but damn if at first glance the parfait doesn’t look like a special treat for Mittens.

Inside, the smooth-as-silk pâté parfait is topped with a muscadine grape gelee, but it was so bitter I felt compelled to send concerned word (and half the tin) back to the chef. Maybe it was a new batch and no one realized the “sweet gelee” we kept hearing about had gone disagreeably rogue? Alas, apparently ‘so bitter it leaves an acrid taste in your mouth’ is the new sweet.

“Did you eat the gelee by itself?” My waiter probed.

“Um, yes. But only because I was trying to figure out where the bitterness was coming from.”

“You’re not supposed to eat it alone,” he responded.

Bummer. And maybe it’s just me, but if a dish requires a Gremlins-esque ‘Don’t feed it after midnight/Eat it alone’-type warning, maybe that should be shared up front? It may not have mattered though, as the acrid edge had also imbued the delicate foie gras, and well, it turns out bitter just ain’t my bag.Fois gras and chicken liver parfait arrives in a tin can and is served with onion toast

The crispy veal blanquette ($32), however? Straight out of your Oktoberfest dreams. Typically a French stew in which all of the components are intentionally kept pale, the McCrady’s version finds a breaded, plate-sized cutlet smothered in a rich, simple cream sauce laced with mushroom slices, ham chunks, and green peas. Crisply fried and served with a sprinkle of parsley and a half-lemon, this schnitzel-esque version is at once homey and refined.

The updated McCrady’s space is largely the same as before. The same high ceilings and exposed stone have been joined by new booths with copper-topped tables. It’s the formality that’s been removed, although not necessarily from the service. One imagines the noise level could get raucous with a full house, but the long wood bar by the entrance remained relatively empty during both of my visits.

Less unpredictable, the roast chicken with chicory and pan jus ($16) is served skin-on and somewhat bone-in, fitting for the upscale homestyle vibe of the dish. The small, tender breast and lightly-flavored au jus are deceptively simple, but matched with the accompanying frisée and radicchio salad, the quiet elegance of the preparation shines through.

Regarding the steak frites, look, here’s the thing: You can’t call a dish steak frites and then send out something that’s not steak frites. Well, I mean you can, but, why? Maybe call it ‘Steak home frites’ or ‘Steak duck fat potato wedges.’ I’m not saying the potato part wasn’t decadent, but it wasn’t what I was expecting, and I lead a cushy enough life that the switcheroo was disappointing. Have no fear, though. The five, juicy slices of perfectly cooked meat and accompanying gravy quickly wiped off my frown and replaced it with question marks. Where the steak was divine, the accompanying sauce is as aggressive as the music overhead. It’s not everyday you get a mouthful of piney evergreen juniper berries with a hot black pepper chaser. It may turn out you love this taste sensation. If so, you won’t mind that the fries are languishing in a deep pool of it. As for me and my taste buds, I’d highly recommend asking that the fierce gravy be placed off to the side.

On the other end of the pepper sauce spectrum lies the beet au poivre ($11). If only it were vegetarian, it evokes a filet to the degree I might consider a return to my old tree-hugging ways. Dehydrated, reconstituted with beef stock, and cooked on the grill, this surprising concoction puts faux meats to shame. Served on a luxuriant black pepper sauce, topped with blue cheese and accompanied by a bright mix of watercress and parsley, this hearty beet “salad” is a creative revelation.

An apparent believer in the old rock adage that anything worth doing is worth overdoing, the new McCrady’s Tavern contains some hits and some B-sides. The great divide between French restraint and American excess is clearly fraught with peril, but with this singular combination of product, talent, and exuberant creativity, great music — if not magic — can no doubt be made.

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joint

Granted, Merriam Webster may be coming down a bit hard on the genre, but first-time visitors to the new Blues Burger Joint on Folly Road should note the large clue dropped by the name. Upon entry, the joint is dark and a bit greasy — even at high noon — but arguably that’s on purpose.

With a menu focused predominantly on burgers, the low-key vibe is accentuated by the textured soundtrack and the tantalizing possibility of a vinyl record falling on your head from the ceiling above. The corner is occupied by a small stage (from which the volume can be pretty loud at night), and there are even a few ancient video games scattered about.

Blues Burger Joint’s menu features a handful of appetizers. The fried pickles and peppers ($7) are pretty much exactly what they sound like. A generous portion of lightly battered rounds — predominantly pickles — arrived accompanied`by what was billed on the menu as ‘housemade ranch dressing,’ but in actuality was bright orange and chockablock with the unmistakable flavor of chipotle.

In contrast, it probably won’t come as a major shock that Sean Mendes, the owner of Blues and Roadside Seafood (which sits next door), also knows his way around a spicy crab cake ($11). Admittedly, heat is a bit of a trend, and the crab cakes are no exception with the occasional hunk of raw jalapeño sending things into overdrive. Pick those fiery suckers out if that’s not your bag, and you’ve got two thick meaty crab cakes worthy of your love and devotion.

Although each component of the Southern gentleman burger ($10) is well-prepared, all together it’s a bit much. A rotund and audacious individual, he seems like he’d be a lot of fun, perhaps the dry, overcooked patty sucked the life out of him? The playful mix of pimiento cheese, fried green tomatoes, and bacon sounded equally compelling, but just didn’t work for me. This leaning tower of Dixie found too many discordant flavors competing for attention.

On the other end of the spectrum, the Bella ($8) — Blues’ sole vegetarian entree — may be the most monochrome sandwich I’ve ever encountered. A large, panko-crusted Portabella cap is deep-fried and filled with goat cheese. Topped with lettuce and tomato on the same soft, sweet bun, it mostly tastes like eating a fried mushroom sandwich, which is to say juicy, but bland. Happily, this gripe is easily fixed by a different cheese or some of that horseradish mayo that is featured on the flat iron steak sandwich ($10).

Speaking of which, that thing is finger-licking good. Not that you do that. A grilled hoagie roll is smeared with the aforementioned horseradish mayo and filled with surprisingly tender chunks of steak. Remarkably, they were cooked medium rare as ordered, an exceptional achievement considering the small stature of the cubes. Topped with sautéed mushrooms, onions, and provolone cheese, this sandwich is the bougie answer to a Philly cheesesteak, and it’s about time somebody came up with it.

Blues Burger Joint’s service is competent and almost friendly. It’s not the kind of place for effusive attention, which is fine by me. Oddly enough, after an evening at the Joint, I kept thinking I smelled donuts. That sugar-meets-deep fryer aroma materialized wherever I went, a downright enigma until I realized it was my hair. Much of the restaurant’s menu is fried and the smell permeates everything, including (seemingly) the clientele. This is why it’s so paradoxical that the fries, sweet potato fries, and onion rings were pitted in a three-way tie for weakest link.

Limper than a wet noodle and flinchingly over-seasoned, the traditional potato variety look handcut, but had the floppy texture of a fry fresh from the oven. Alas, the same ‘hot, but soggy’ fate befell the sweet potato fries. Due to their higher moisture content, sweet potatoes require a soak/dust/double-fry technique to crisp up properly. These are not those.

For what it’s worth, the fries are the sideshow and not the main event. If I had to pick between crisp fries and the perfection that was the flat iron steak sandwich, well, I know where to get my fix.

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Take, for example, the Instant Vacation ($12). Tasting exactly like those Gin Gins chewy ginger candies you can get at Trader Joe’s, it’s sweet and spicy with house-made ginger beer and a zippy finish. Imperceptibly alcoholic, plan to have a spotter cut you off as this could prove a slippery slope.

 The same cannot be said for the Zombie ($12), which is strong. How strong? Well, as a word to the wise, do not allow the straw to dredge from the bottom of the glass lest your eyeballs roll back into your head and you question what is in your mouth. Name-wise I’d say they nailed it. The limit on catatonia is one per person, which sounds about right.

The Mojito ($12) sticks with refreshing tradition, but it’s made with both fresh mint and a mint bitter, which adds a delightfully crisp Peppermint Patty-esque finish to each sip. These are rhum masters, indeed.

The bones of the former Big John’s Tavern are still recognizable, yet the space has undergone a stylish remodel. Relentlessly festive and fun, this is no kitschy tiki bar. Tropical, yet polished there’s also a low-key dining area with a beachy seating. The vibe is easy breezy and the smooth-drinking cocktails only help matters along: It’s hard to imagine Cane Rhum Bar developing anything but an instant fan base.

But what about the Caribbean Kitchen part of the name? Well, that depends. With 11 plates, five side dishes, and three desserts hailing from almost as many cuisines, there’s a bit of a gimmicky, Epcot-style “Caribbean’s greatest hits” feel to the menu.

Case in point, the stamp ‘n’ go ($10). A traditional Jamaican salt cod fritter, the hushpuppy-like appearance may not prepare you for the fact that the bready balls also contain red and green bell peppers, onions, and a notable punch of fiery hot pepper. Heavily drizzled with what the waiter described as “Creole tartar” (which tastes like curry mayonnaise), they’re somehow both bland and punishing. Scotch bonnet enthusiasts need only apply.

At the same time, the mighty jerk chicken ($12) was expertly done and the star of the items sampled. Yes, it’s also quite spicy, but here the fiery heat is balanced by the moist meat, sweet glaze, and savory char flavor. Served on a banana leaf, it’s accompanied by a tart raisin chutney that further compliments the flavors.

The fried plantains ($4) appear as a garnish on a few of the dishes or can be purchased as a side. Although certainly palatable, the plantain I received was under-ripe and had been sweetened with granulated sugar. It can’t be easy getting perfectly ripe plantains year-round and you gotta do what you gotta do, but maybe consider cooking them in brown sugar and forgoing the jarring sugar cube crunch?

Service is swift and competent, with the right balance of stopovers and space. The ambiance is occasionally marred by the top-volume intonations of Sean Paul, but just when things get complaint-worthy, the sound simmers back down.

Although it’s good to see spicy Jamaican beef patties ($10) on the menu, this iteration needs work. The ground hamburger filling is typically soft and a little bit spicy, but the orange crust lacks flavor and features a suspiciously perfect “straight from the freezer” appearance. Accompanied by a simple green salad, some tweaks to the crust’s crispness and flavor could change everything.

The coffee and brown sugar-rubbed steak ($14) needs no adjustment. Served sliced and cooked to order, this was one of the most successful dishes on the menu. The Charleston hots ($10) find three small pieces of cornmeal-breaded Mahi Mahi on a pile of yuca fries. Served with an excellent banana ketchup, this is another near-miss. The thick wedges of starchy yuca cook up to a dry, grainy texture and are then liberally drizzled in more of the creole (curry) mayo. Foam-like and about as tasteless, this could be easily addressed by a frite-sized cut and a little more time in the fryer. And while I’m doling out unsolicited advice, please consider sending the Creole mayo on the side, as the powerful turmeric flavor tends to linger.

Let’s talk about my almost-favorite dish, the jumbo garlic prawns ($15). Delicious? Absolutely. “Biggest ones we could find”? Uh. Look harder. For $5 a shrimp, I expect one of those monsters that makes you vaguely worry about GMOs. Don’t get me wrong, the rich, garlicky marinade pairs perfectly with the juicy crustacean. And when it arrives, the decorative magenta orchid bloom is a nice tropical touch. But it still isn’t making up for the sticker shock and is maybe even part of driving prices up. Personally, you can leave the flowers off, so long as there’s some kind of adjustment to the price point or quantity.

In short, Cane is a hip, charming space with great rum-based cocktails and a genial vibe. Stop in for an inspired drink and a creative plate or two, but maybe hold off on making a whole meal of it just yet.

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“Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Oh. My. God.”

But this was no cheeky reenactment, just the throes of pure, smoked meat ecstasy.

If you had asked me a few weeks ago what the best barbecue I ever had was, I’d have said Franklin Barbecue in Austin, Texas. For reasons I do not know and would never question, acclaimed pit master John Lewis — a two and a half-year veteran of Franklin Barbecue and later credited with building Austin’s La Barbecue into a nationally respected spot — decided to trade in Bat City for the Holy City.

Pork-loving, Carolina mustard sauce-loyalists may not be entirely accustomed to what Lewis Barbecue has got in those smokers, but give the beef a chance, and it’s hard to imagine you’ll experience anything less than loud, vocal satisfaction.

Let’s start with the familiar.

The chunks of pulled pork ($18/lb.) boast a visible smoke line, and the kiss of char flavor hits first. Served with sliced white bread or on a fresh roll and some not-to-be missed pickled onions, the meat is rich and tender. The oil-logged paper wrapping quickly exposes the other white meat as oh, so fatty, but before your bread succumbs entirely — or perhaps to urge it along — try some sauce.

Granted, this is not what most people think of with respect to “barbecue sauce,” and, well, arguably it’s not. You have your option of red or green, both of which look more like something you’d find on a salsa bar. Fittingly, the green is earthy and mellow; rich with mild chile and vinegar flavors. It’s complex and a little sweet, packing a light heat at the finish. The red is tangy and assertive, with a sharp apple cider vinegar tang, but not the usual sugary finish associated with vinegar-based barbecue.

Neither to your liking? I could be mistaken, but I saw absolutely no signage prohibiting eaters from smuggling in their own. On the other hand, you may find sauce is an afterthought once you get your lips around this meat.

The pork spare ribs ($18/lb.) are typically rich and tender. Smoke is once again an initial element of the flavor profile, but it works as an accent more than a “this tastes like smoke” assault. A thin layer of sweet sauce melted along the edge keeps things from getting too savory. Prices shake out to about $5 a rib, and honestly, you could do a lot — insert imagery of any fast food “value meal” known to man — worse for $5.

Pork ribs aren’t the only hand-held option available. The beef short rib ($22/lb.) is a unique menu item, as a single rib can be as large as two hulking and pricey pounds post-cooked weight. Hogging valuable real estate in the smoker, this delicious hunk of burning love is available only on Saturdays, but it’s worth the effort to get your paws on one. Unlike brisket, where there are distinct lean and fatty sides, the marbling in a beef short rib runs evenly throughout the meat, ensuring each bite is decadently balanced. Still, finding the right temperature in the smoker requires considerable skill. Lewis’ efforts result in crispy, charred edges coated with a flavorful rub with a bit of crunch. There’s a little hint of sweet and a touch of heat, but one thing is sure: This cow died for a worthy cause. All hail the king, indeed.

The creamy lemon slaw ($2.50/$8 pint/$12 quart) doesn’t fare much better. Somewhat wet, with pungent cabbage barely tempered by the hint of lemon and a light creamy dressing heavy on the celery seed, it’s a forgettable effort.

But perhaps it’s only fair? If everything coming out of Lewis Barbecue’s kitchen were perfection, Charleston — or at least me personally — would be facing an obesity epidemic of epic scale.

Thankfully, the cowboy pinto beans ($2.50/$8 pint/$12 quart) pose no such threat. Featuring the look and taste of what I imagine baked beans cooked with a jar of salsa might turn out like, they’re fine, but nothing memorable.

The sweet corn tamale-esque chile cornbread pudding ($3.50) was preceded by much fanfare. The eggy quality is a refreshing change, but the large chunks of salty cheese I could do without. However, as things go, this is by far the best side of the bunch.

But who needs sides when you have turkey ($18/lb.) like this? Incredibly moist and kissed with smoke flavor, a half-pound gets you four thick slices of peppered breast meat. If the juice level in this bird doesn’t convince you the man is a master, there’s probably no persuading you.

Set in an open, warehouse-like space with white walls and high ceilings with exposed ductwork, you place your order at the front counter and find your own seat. There’s also a bar with a focus on Mexican beer and cocktails.

Although the lines bordered on outrageous when the joint first opened, things have calmed down a bit. Regardless, service is reliably patient and helpful no matter the circumstances, and the available menu items — many of which come and go throughout the day — can be found written on brown craft paper tacked to the wall.

The “hot guts” sausage link ($5) may find you having an unplanned “where does meat come from?” conversation with your offspring, but the finished product is admirable nonetheless. Spicy and smoky with visible hot pepper flakes and the deep red of paprika, it’s as hearty and satisfying a hot link as you’d find anywhere.

Still, for my $21 a pound, nothing comes close to the prime beef brisket. Tender, succulent, and decadent, it inspires Gollum-like hoarding urges. Oh, for the days of the Atkins Diet craze, when eating like this daily could be considered anything other than a gluttonous cry for help. However, consumed in moderation, there’s nothing wrong with a little greasy public ecstasy among barbecue enthusiasts.

I’ll see — or hear— you there.

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Take, for example, the octopus carpaccio ($14). Practically perfect in every way, Chef Michael Toscano cuts thin slices and carefully layers them into a veritable work of art. The fragrant olive oil hits first, followed by sharp black pepper, and bright lemon. The tender octopus flavor comes through last, lightly sweet and delicate in both taste and texture. I could live on this.

The funghi fritti ($10) colors outside the predominantly Italian lines. If you’ve ever eaten tempura vegetables and thought, “I wish someone would find a way to make this even more decadent,” then buy a lotto ticket, because this is your lucky day. Fresh shiitake mushrooms are tempura battered, crisply fried, and served layered with a sesame oil crema and black garlic vinegar glaze. Hedonistic as Caligula, yet decidedly Asian, this is a mashup that works.

The crispy potato vinaigrette ($8) finds home-style chunks of crisp-fried spuds seasoned with vinegar powder, plus what appeared to be, at minimum, a fistful of fresh rosemary needles. With a fish and chips vibe, this clever side is tasty, but the overabundance of evergreen left me puzzled.

In contrast, the braised broccoli rabe ($7) is a time machine to your Italian (by way of New Jersey) grandma’s house. Tender, slightly bitter escarole is served muddled with soft, homey gigante beans and savory broth. It tastes like comfort, and it’s got me wondering if Le Farfalle’s neighbors are looking for a roommate, as I could also live on this. Or at least would like to try.

Service is very personable, even charismatic. Expect your dark denim-clad waiter to explain the specials and cheerfully crack some jokes. You may start to feel close to them, chummy even, but try not to get emotionally attached because once they’re gone, they’re gone.

Like a date that starts out hot and heavy, but then snubs you for someone else halfway through the party — Was it something I said? — on one occasion, my once-attentive waiter vanished shortly after the first course. Varying runners made sure the job ultimately got done, but the contrasting attention levels were hard to ignore.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner, though, and if this is your experience, stiffen that lip and turn your attention back to the food. I recommend the bowl of linguine ($22). Freshly made and perfectly al dente, it tastes like the last days of summer. Ground conch, fresh basil leaves, and a hint of habanero peppers mingle with fresh cherry tomatoes, collapsed in juicy submission. In this minced form, the conch is hard to ascertain, offering just the slightest sweetness, along with a meaty heartiness.

The sorghum pappardelle ($19) puts the kitchen’s pasta-making skills on parade. The wide ribbons arrive coated with crisp pancetta and charred escarole. It’s luxuriant and balanced, with the perfect amount of salty bite added by the freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano on top. There you go again, Le Farfalle, making me love you.

The chicken picatta ($24) may threaten your very sanity, with a turducken-esque take on the Italian-American classic. A chicken breast is ensconced in thigh meat and cooked to a state of tenderness so supple, it will challenge everything you know about the “feel” of done meat. Glazed with a rich, lemony sauce punctuated by capers and served alongside mashed butter with a touch of potatoes, eat this every day at your own coronary risk. A poultry within a poultry: It’s like Inception, but less confusing.

Le Farfalle’s space itself is open and congenial. With its high ceilings, things can get extremely loud near the bar, but generous spacing between the tables keeps the sound anonymous, a muffled roar. The restaurant starts each meal with a sample of Parmigiano-Reggiano from the large wheel in the main dining room, the most striking thing of which is the vast space around it. The leeway is a revelation, as most restaurants would have crammed 10 more seats in the vacancy.

This same conscious restraint can be found in the whole branzino ($31), which was played by a red snapper during my visit. The whole fish is served with a slightly sour squash caponata, effectively involving every taste bud you’ve got. First up is the light char on the delicate flesh, followed by the tart lemon, and buttery pine nut sauce. Notably simple, every ingredient makes sense and complements the other. I could also live on this, but it may shorten my life expectancy due to pin bones. Good luck with that part — it’s maybe not so much a first date selection — but forge ahead anyway. It’s worth it.

With nary a misstep and easily resolvable service issues, Le Farfalle’s offhandedly chic vibe and near-perfect food may very well turn you into a stalker, but once your friends meet her, they’ll help post bail.

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Surveying the trio of chilled shellfish appetizers on the menu, the crab remoulade ($18) begged for my attention. Replete with pickled cucumbers, onions, celery slices, and mustard seeds, the generous portion of remoulade has a busy tartar sauce-quality that overwhelms the delicate blue crabmeat. Accompanied by some superlative house-made butter crackers — the love child of a shortbread cookie and a Keebler Club Cracker — this is so close, and yet not even. I’d suggest taking it easy on the remoulade, as less is arguably more where it’s concerned.

In contrast, the country-style pate ($14) was expertly prepared and flavorful, with a garlic finish and none of the crumbly chunkiness that sometimes plagues such preparations. Served with a scoop of piquant pickled mustard seeds, it’s accompanied by baguette slices, as well as spicy pickled green beans, gherkins, and a medley of pickled vegetables. Classically French with a Southern twist, it hits all the right notes.

Similarly, the crispy duck confit salad ($19) takes light dining to new levels of decadence. Fresh spring greens and slightly bitter frisee mingle expertly with a vinegar-based dressing. Topped with pickled mustard seeds, rich roast duck meat, a warm poached duck egg, and some superfluous croutons, this dish claims to be a salad, but the title seems too simple. Rich, yet refreshing, it’s simply sublime.

The steak frites ($27 lunch/$45 dinner), however, displayed telltale signs of kitchen confusion. Ordered medium rare, but served medium well, this was particularly disappointing, especially considering the meat is served sliced. Topped with a Cafe de Paris butter so chockablock with fresh tarragon it’s almost a French chimichurri, it was difficult to taste much else. The accompanying fries, however, were top-notch: thin, crisp, and perfectly seasoned. Same can be said for the sharp notes of the lemony watercress and frisee salad, a refreshing contrast to the other items.

Service is impeccable, and the well-versed staff are always available, but never intrusive. With high-ceilings, lightweight wood furniture, and tile floors, the volume can get a bit oppressive during busy spells, but the polished attentiveness keeps things from feeling too casual.

Plus, the menu is always there to raise the bar. Offered as an accompaniment at dinner, four dainty gougeres ($8) pastry puffs are served with a decadent chicken liver mousse. A perfect small appetizer, the dish brings a distinctive French flair.

The dinner menu is diminutive with a variation on the steak frites, chicken for two, and a pair of fish dishes. The first, a pan-seared wreckfish ($34),was served with vegetables a la grecque, a continental alias for roasted new potatoes, cauliflower, cabbage, red onion, and cherry tomatoes. Homey yet refined, the fish took about 45 minutes to appear and arrived looking jet lagged and exhausted. Nonetheless, the dry-looking fish remained flaky and rich inside, its buttery flavor somehow reminiscent of fried chicken.

Meanwhile, the accompanying Hasselback potatoes ($8) are a spectacle unto themselves. Named for the hotel in Stockholm in which the recipe was invented in the 1950s, the tiny purple root vegetables are sliced paper-thin and topped with a creamy sheep’s milk mornay, diced chives, and chunks of sea salt. Rich and simple, this rendition evokes a sudden nostalgia for the French countryside.

Henrietta’s refined French flavors by way of the Big Easy bring out some of the highlights of both cuisines. Despite some stumbles from the kitchen, the excellent service and over-arching deliciousness ensure the flavors shine and les bons temps rouler.

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It’s embarrassing, but I’m hoping my ignorance can help others. You see, while looking at the menu on the website for this review, I discovered the shocking truth: that my waitress was no mere mortal. Rather, the veritable “Diana Prince” in the clean white T-shirt cheerfully serving my meal is actually Chef April Robinson, or Wonder Woman, as you may also know her. You read that right. The chef is also running front-of-house. Solo. Don’t try to fathom how this is possible. It isn’t. Unless you are in fact Wonder Woman. I rest my case.

Regardless of how Robinson gained her superpowers, she’s using them for good.

The Tomato Tomahto ($12) salad arrives with four thick slices of ripe red and yellow tomatoes and a generous dollop of house-made burrata. Fresh and light, it’s simple, yet exactly what you were hoping it would be — a welcome surprise where caprese salads are concerned.

The dozen panko-crusted zucchini chips ($6) are fried to a golden brown and dusted with parmesan. Good on their own, the decadence level goes into overdrive when dunked in the accompanying green sauce, a zesty buttermilk dressing billed as “creek sauce.” Merciful Minerva, that sauce could make a magical golden lasso palatable

Butter Tapas’ Brussels sprouts ($6) are also worth your time. Well-seared but still possessed of a little crunch, they’re coated in a sweet balsamic glaze. It’s the typical presentation these days, but why fix what isn’t broken?

More whimsical, but less to my liking was the grilled watermelon ($10). Grilling the watermelon causes much of the water, and sweetness, to evaporate, leaving behind an almost meat-like texture and a flavor that’s akin to cooked winter squash. Accompanied by salty homemade ricotta cheese, drops of mint-infused honey, and bitter arugula, expect plenty of squish and a lasagna-like flavor profile. Personally, I wasn’t into it.

By now you’ve probably caught on that these aren’t tapas in the sense of, well, Spanish tapas. And why the word Butter? Well, one trip to the location will clear that up. Formerly a cupcake shop — a handful of the sweet treats continue to be offered in the large glass display case — Butter Tapas still feels very much like a grab-and-go bakery. Attractively decorated, the space itself is very small, and the seating scant. Although overlooking a lively parking lot, one imagines (or at least hopes for) relocation in its future.

But don’t let the vibe rattle you. Although Robinson got her start in the cupcake biz, she clearly has had more than pastry training.

Case in point, Robinson’s duck wings ($12), another creative and well-executed offering. The four large, Asian-flavored wings are deep-fried and coated in a generous blanket of “Thai barbecue sauce,” which tasted a lot like Chinese five spice. Regardless, they’re crisp, flavorful, and certain to sticky-up any bracelets you happen to be wearing, but it’s worth the mess.

The jerk lamb pops ($15) find three tiny tomahawk chops imbued with an allspice-heavy, fiery rub. Cooked to well-done and extremely small in portion, they’re good but not great.

Similar issues impact the lobster corn dog ($9), a novelty of an idea that falls short in both appearance and magnitude. A hunk of fresh lobster meat about the size of a piece of sidewalk chalk is coated in a cornmeal batter and deep-fried. With looks only a mother could love, this hand-formed effort needs more fine-tuning. Tasty, but hard to eat and too diminutive to share, there’s a reason people don’t make corn dogs from scratch.

On the other hand, one day a lump crab cake ($12) will come into your life and you will understand why it never worked out with anyone else. Don’t even try to share, as the sweet, meaty cake provides the kind of rare perfection that demands possessive greed. And possibly some warning looks. Served with five garlicky asparagus spears and a grilled lemon, it’s the crab cake of your dreams.

Your average strip mall-cupcake-shop-transitioning-into-a-full-service-restaurant scenario is likely to encounter some issues. Remarkably, Butter Tapas skirts most of them, and there’s no reason to believe what remains can’t be addressed in time. And in case you haven’t heard, superheroes like to think we don’t recognize them in their street clothes. So please don’t go charging into Butter Tapas demanding to try on Robinson’s magical tiara. Rather, take this as an opportunity to observe Robinson, clearly the daughter of Zeus, in her semi-natural habitat.

And for the love of Hera, order the crab cakes.

The post Chef April Robinson uses her powers for good at Butter Tapas (Charleston City Paper) appeared first on Vanessa Wolf, MBA.