An iconic moment in subculture, reinvented.

Gulp Fiction

Vincent: What the fried rice is this place?

Mia: This is “Jackrabbit Filly.” A Genghis man should love it.

Vincent: Come on, Mia. Let’s go and get some marinated mackerel ($13).

Mia: You can get marinated mackerel here, Daddy-o. Don’t be a hare.

Vincent: Oh, after you, Mustang Sally.

Following suit, the menu at Jackrabbit Filly — Shuai and Corrie Wang’s predestined jump from their popular Short Grain food truck — takes quintessential Asian fare, and adds some vamp. While the lunch and dinner offerings rotate often, rest assured the menu is filled with tasty iterations of kimchi, laksa curry, and Sichuan peppercorns.

The pork and cabbage dumplings ($9) are where Yangtze meets Ganges, with a rich mix of pork, cabbage, ginger, and coriander encased inside the perfectly cooked pasta wrapper. Topped with a pungent chinkiang vinegar and Lao Gan Ma chili crisp sauce, the first bite is like suddenly finding something you hadn’t even realized was missing.

Muse on that while you wait. And wait. And do a little more waiting for a table. Arrive at 5:30 p.m. and the place is already bumping, with the predicted 45-minute biding-of-time ultimately taking 30 minutes longer. Eventually things will presumably die down and/or a reservation system engaged, but for now you can bank on plenty of hobnobbing with strangers. If you have a hankering for Asian fusion and awkward conversations, the front porch has what you need. Huddle under a heat lamp, sip a drink with a name so long and unnecessary it’s a little cringey to say it aloud (“I’ll take a ‘That’s right, Iceman. I am Dangerous,” $10) and watch as converging generations grapple for common ground.

From the name, one might expect the salt and pepper octopus ($11) to arrive as something along the lines of crisp, cornstarch-coated tentacles tossed with Sichuan and jalapeno peppers.

One would be wrong. In actuality, it’s closer to popcorn shrimp than shell-on crunchy crustacean, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that. Topped with green onion and crisp cucumber, all drenched in a buttermilk wasabi aioli, I’m from here on referring to it as octopoda with ranch.

The fish tartare ($12), however, should be called bait and switch. I mean, yes, there’s raw fish, but it’s plated on top of nori-wrapped cylinders of rice and, well — it’s deconstructed sushi. The generous bounty of smoky Chipotle-esque “spicy mayo” and fishy furikake overshadowed the delicate fish, but props for what is undoubtedly a clever idea by any name.

Short Grain’s beloved karaage ($8) endures in both its forms, traditional and Sichuan hot. Basically the best chicken tenders, ever; the meat is juicy, the coating crunchy, and the drizzle of lemon mayo and ponzu — along with some togarashi-induced heat — should be presented with the following disclaimer: “The karaage is a small structure made of chicken. It is delicious, and you are not ready for it.”

You’ll soon cycle through all five stages of grief.

Denial. “It’s not that delicious. I can control myself.”

Anger. “Who the f—- ordered this?!”

Bargaining. “If I finish it all, can I have my soul back?”

Depression. “There is no love here, and there is no pain.”

Acceptance. “I will die because of this, and I am fine with that.”

So, to sum it up, apply for that second mortgage now, because it’s probably also addictive.

A surprising showstopper, the menu’s description of the cauliflower salad ($10) gives insufficient insight as to how I can recreate it at home. “This salad is out of control,” groaned my vegetable-eschewing, suddenly greedy dining companion. Rendered bright green from the cilantro dressing, the tender florets contrast nicely with the crunch of fried chickpeas, peanuts, and puffed rice. While a takeout order — or three — will be necessary to truly re-engineer the dish, I’m not angry.

Despite the crowds and increasing throngs of jostling bodies waiting for a table, service was cheerful and efficient. The two-top to our left remained empty for a while, so it’s possible the extreme busyness is also because they’re pacing things in order to stay in the flow. And it probably doesn’t hurt sales of those “Truth is, I’ve been thirsty all my life” ($10) gin and sochu cocktails. And congrats if you get that reference without Google.

During our wait, we chatted with some guys about their undying affection for the Singapore fried rice ($17). While they eventually gave up and went to get a pizza, we ultimately gazed upon a large dish of ham, pineapple, pea, and carrot-filled grains. Topped with cilantro, Thai basil, five juicy shrimp, and a buttermilk curry aioli, it’s a sweet, smoky, and satisfying version of the classic.

One doesn’t anticipate running into tomatillos at an Asian restaurant. But fusions like this is why fusion exists, and it turns out the indigenous Mexican nightshades make total sense in the mapo tofu verde ($16). So do the pillowy, flavor-soaked ricotta gnudi and crisp, flowery coriander seeds. While a very generous portion, it’s too bad there isn’t some kind of bollillo or Hokkaido milk bread rolls on offer to soak up what remains of the bright, complex sauce.

On that note, short-grain rice ($3) is available as a side dish, and don’t overlook the garlicky greens ($5) listed below it. Topped with ponzu and dressed in a garlicky (duh), gingery sauce, the kale is everything greens dream of becoming when they grow up.

“If I had the authority, I’d give them an award,” sighed my dining companion. While, alas, no World Famous Jackrabbit Filly twist contest exists (yet), a similar, multi-tiered, two-foot-tall trophy sounds about right. Grab some friends, share the love, and share it hard.

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They say a good chef will rise to any challenge. Legend has it, while at an impromptu late-night get together, Mario Batali saved the day by preparing foie gras accompanied with an ad-libbed reduction of orange Nehi soda and Starburst fruit candies (no word on any sexual harassment, but that’s a story for another day). The results were reportedly brilliant.

One imagines Dashi’s chef Stephen Thompson capable of similar unfathomable feats. As it stands, let’s say you’re in the mood for Thai … and Mexican … and definitely Japanese, as well as Korean. And you want them now, and in the same mouthful. No longer must you dispatch a fleet of Uber Eats drivers to satisfy your whims, as food truck Dashi has (also, the truck still roves on Tuesdays) taken their wheels off on Remount Road.

Since early 2015, the Asian-Latin fusion vehicle has been winning admirers all over town. Now permanently occupying the former home of Guatemalan El Chapin restaurant, the decidedly retro, ’70s-themed space is simple and straightforward.

The opposite must be said about the food.

Although fruity candy and citrus soda don’t appear among the listed ingredients on the menu, much about Dashi smacks of similar late-night, last-minute innovation. Saunter up to the counter and behold an eclectic collection of colliding cuisines. Here, banh mi ($12) and pad Thai ($11) mingle with tacos ($5/$9/$12) and burritos ($11), all of which come with a choice of protein. Choose from chili-marinated fried chicken, marinated fried tofu, five-spice pork belly, sauteed shrimp, and seasonal veggies and prepare to welcome a five-pound, eight-ounce bundle of joy into your life.

Encased in a cheese wrap and filled with fried rice, Thai slaw, and Sriracha hollandaise, plus both smoked gouda and mozzarella cheese, this is a diverse, decidedly non-Mexican mouthful. It’s also a mega amount of food, with no less than a dozen shrimp squeezed in. Overall, the flavors are mild and creamy, with the only real heat coming from the accompanying cup of sambal aioli. Burritos with a side of mayonnaise? Welcome to Anything Goesville.

Case in point, the duck ramen ($14). Also quite ample, the unexpected triceps workout is filled with culinary surprises, like rich, tender duck confit and a delightfully runny Scotch egg. While the presentation plays at bibimbap — with fresh cilantro, pickled jalapenos, housemade kimchi, and chunks of five spice-coated pork belly all relegated to their respective corners — the flavors are distinctly Chinese. Filled with Cantonese noodles, cabbage, and broccoli, the duck and miso-based broth is aggressively dominated by the sweet notes of five spice powder.

Set on Remount Road, the once-simple space has been opened up, and metal beams and aluminum ductwork loom overhead. The vibe is casual and noisy, and diners share a neighborly rapport. Along with Wednesday night trivia and occasional live music acts on the outdoor patio, there’s a full bar offering an admirable array of beer, wine, and cocktails.

Service is minimal and laid back. Order at the counter, grab a number and a booth and wait for the grub to arrive. Owing to the enduring food truck model, that doesn’t take long.

While a number of international cuisines are represented, Thailand reigns supreme. The lone salad available at Dashi is a fairly by-the-book Thai beef ($12) variation, made with fresh greens, halved cherry tomatoes, and sliced cucumbers. Topped with thinly carved flank steak and copious grilled red onion rounds, it’s doused in a bright fish sauce and lime juice dressing. Fresh and flavorful, it’s a light dish that’s also somehow substantial.

Dashi’s logo is all about Latin-Asian fusion, but make no assumptions, as other cuisines clamor for attention and many a dish is not what it seems. Made with blue crab and shrimp, the spicy seafood roll ($16) presents as New England fare, but the crisp topping of fried oysters and a generous layer of spicy mayo render it far more evocative of a punchy New Orleans po’ boy than an understated Maine lobster roll.

Similarly, after a few bites of the paella ($15), my dining companion happily proclaimed that he “really liked this dirty rice.” Decidedly oily, the soft grains are mixed with roasted poblanos and thin-sliced, intensely smoky chorizo. Topped with fresh cilantro, broccoli florets, and garlic aioli, note there’s also a family-size portion of sliced chicken breast. Nonetheless, in showcasing smoke over saffron and sausage in place of seafood, the dish comes across far more Cajun than anything hailing from Valencia.

Firing on all cylinders and true to its title, the Thai curry stir fry noodles ($14) are a slurpy, spicy, coconut milky dream. Interlaced with broccoli, carrots, and purple cabbage, the thin Cantonese ramen noodles bathe in a generous pool of vibrant Thai red curry sauce. Lighter appetites can anticipate getting at least two meals out of this, as your protein of choice will once again be administered in Herculean quantities.

Dashi is an enigma, but that seems to be the point. While traditional Japanese dashi is most recognized as a simple, umami-rich broth made with kombu (kelp) and bonito (fish) flakes, at Dashi, the fusion-by-way-of-hostile-takeover menu is all about detonating umami nukes.

Bold, brash, and prone to multilingual flights of fancy, come with an appetite for irreverence. Yes, some of the cheeky mashups are weird, but others are surprisingly serendipitous. Thai curry with Chinese noodles, Indonesian sambal, and Mexican cotija cheese? Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.

Along with Dashi’s whimsical array of globetrotting options and convivial atmosphere, big appetites on a budget can also bank on abundant portions with a large side of unapologetic culinary audacity.

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There are men, and there are “men’s men.” The latter are often described as confident and masculine — the type of man other men want to be. On that note, Butcher & The Boar is a “man’s man” of restaurants. Cocksure and handsome, he’s well-heeled, but easygoing, pulling out a chair while proffering a well-curated array of beer, bourbon, and meat.

And boy, howdy, is there meat — thick meat, raw meat, meat that climbs on rocks. The menu starts with a swaggering pair of samplers. The Butcher’s Platter ($29) includes Texas wild boar ham, turkey braunschweiger, and wild boar head cheese.

The Sausage Sampler ($29) features links of wild boar hot, Texas beef, and Berkshire pork and cheddar. They arrive casually slung amidst pools of barbecue sauce and whole grain mustard, plus a crisp, flavorful mound of red cabbage slaw. The menu also indicates an accompaniment called “stukel,” a foodstuff so rare that the only internet references to it are directly tied to the restaurant’s original Minneapolis location. Process of elimination implies it’s another name for the generous portion of what I would call giardiniera — a fiery melange of hot pepper-infused pickled cauliflower, onions, and carrot slices.

The Boar makes their sausage in house, and it’s a notable strength: The Texas beef link is dense and meaty, with some notable fiery heat. Equally substantial and also possessed of some kick, the wild boar hot link has pronounced chili powder notes. In contrast, the juicy Berkshire pork link — oozing with rich, melted cheddar cheese — is understated and approachable.

As far as the vibe, like any worldly, yet down-to-earth man about town, the Boar offers both elegant charm and casual fun. Similarly, the spaces — and menus — are divided into the chic, subdued interior with its swanky steakhouse fare, and the relaxed outdoor beer garden and its informal eats. At the former, expect wood-fired ribeye ($48) and New York strip ($42), or a salt and sugar-cured beef long rib ($49) that’s been smoked for 14 hours.

With the exception of the smoked pork chop ($39) or 8-ounce filet mignon ($39), the patio menu eschews such formality, focusing on a mix of starters, salads, and sandwiches. The steak tartare ($16), made with bone marrow aioli, jalapenos, and cornichon, arrives looking like a Hostess Sno Ball. “What’s that?” asked my dining companion, pointing suspiciously at the ethereal, flaky white mound.

The answer is a confusing mix of cheese, cheese, tender raw meat cubes, cheese and ‘why’? Completely and utterly dominated by the fine strands of salty pecorino, no trace of the jalapeno, cornichon, or bone marrow can be discerned. On the upside, the oil-rubbed grilled bread shines — a lone voice in the otherwise pecorino-drenched choir.

The snapper ceviche ($14) raises still more questions. A mismatched marriage of Central American tradition, Greek accouterments, and the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, N.Y., what arrives are chunks of fresh, tender snapper bathed in a vibrant orange sauce that tastes remarkably like Tabasco. Topped with pine nuts, yogurt dollops, fresh mint, and served with a bowl of arid seeded crackers it’s … not ceviche. If renamed something along the lines of “Buffalo-style crudo,” the elements might make more sense.

Sadly, service on the patio is also hard to nail down. Due perhaps to the 45-degree nip in the air and a lack of heaters, bonfires, or Tauntaun sleeping bags, our server was something of a phantom. This was exacerbated by a sudden descent of wait staff and the unexpected arrival of all six dishes at once. Coupled with the cramped real estate, the chilly temps made it a challenge to “get it while it’s hot.”

One dish that didn’t suffer any detriment from the Minnesota-spring weather was the peanut butter-stuffed jalapenos ($11). Here, seven halved, grilled jalapenos arrive artfully plated and filled with a trio of peanut butter, boiled peanuts, and chopped roasted peanuts. The unusual hat trick of peanut preparations is then adorned with crumbles of cotija cheese, pickled golden raisins, and fresh cilantro. It’s unclear what may have inspired this recipe — a Chopped mystery basket? Double-dog dare? LSD? — but no.

Cold, hot, in a box, with a fox — this is basically an inadvisable twist on ants on a log.

The “On a Bun” options, however, are solid bets.

The Boar foot long ($12) features a juicy, meaty dog enveloped in a disproportionately outsized brioche bun, the David Byrne-suit of breadstuffs. That aside, the net result is familiar, yet creative, topped with piquant Cajun chow-chow, Fresno peppers, mustard, and mayo.

For $3, one can swap the standard-issue potato chips for fries, Brussels sprouts, or a wedge salad, all of which are worth it. The Brussels are deep fried, then tossed in a tangy, spicy Buffalo-style glaze, while the fries are superlative — a frite by any other name. Similarly, the wedge salad — where even as a side dish, is presented as an actual wedge — shines with house-smoked bacon, blue cheese bits, and balsamic-infused tomato syrup. Despite my general apathy toward ranch dressing, iceberg lettuce, and DIY salad assembly, I’d order it again.

Last, but not least, the butcher burger ($13) is good reason to freeze one’s ass off on a dog-festooned outdoor deck. Juicy, flavorful, and gilded with bacon in two forms, it’s indicative of the Boar’s strengths. When it comes to ground meat formed into a patty or encased in intestines, they know what’s up.

All told, there are kinks to iron out, and the meat-heavy menu may not appeal to everyone. Still, despite a primary focus on beer, bourbon, and beasts, Butcher & The Boar offers enough variations on the theme to satisfy a wide array of tastes.

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According to local lore, Nashville hot chicken owes its existence to a two-timing man.

At the height of the Great Depression, Thornton Prince’s girlfriend grew tired of his philandering ways. Sneaking in early one morning, Thornton discovered his lady had prepared him his favorite dish, fried chicken. However, in an act of revenge, she’d loaded it with all the cayenne pepper in the pantry.

The plan to teach her man a lesson backfired. Thornton loved the intense flavor, and shared some with his brothers, who agreed. While the name of the now ex-girlfriend has been lost to history, the recipe has not. Thornton and his siblings recreated the spicy seasoning, and a few years later, the BBQ Chicken Shack café opened. For nearly 80 years, the fiery poultry remained a popular secret of Nashville’s black community, due mostly to pervasive racial segregation.

In 1980, Thornton’s grand-niece, Andre Prince Jeffries, took over the business and renamed it Prince’s Chicken Shack. A decade later, she moved the establishment to a strip mall in East Nashville, where it remains to this day.

Over the years, others began to emulate the recipe, a trend that was picked up on by the son of a successful restaurateur. The first Hattie B’s opened in 2012, in a hip, trendy area adjacent to both Music Row and the Vanderbilt and Belmont University campuses.

By 2016, KFC had jumped on the bandwagon, and even City Paper was in on the hot stuff, with food writer Robert Donovan gracing a Feb. cover “Searching for Nashville Hot Chicken in Charleston.” Four of the seven local hot chicken spots in Charleston are now shuttered, which means if you’re afflicted with a hankering, you’d best make the trek down the live oak and Spanish-moss canopied Betsy Kerrison Parkway.

A stone’s throw from Kiawah, KinFolk occupies the tiny space once inhabited by Crave Smokehouse. With snug seating for two dozen, it’s something of a shack in its own right. Owned and operated by a pair of brothers, there’s a welcoming “door’s always open” vibe that permeates everything from the decor to the food.

The menu changes often, seemingly most influenced by the whims of nature and her bounty, and on my visit, the heirloom tomato salad ($9) beckoned. Simple and straightforward, it does exactly what one would hope — elevate the pure pleasure of a perfectly ripe, late-summer tomato. Cut into mouthful-sized chunks, the tomatoes are tossed with paper-thin shallots and a light vinaigrette, then finished with ribbons of fresh parsley and basil. In a world where my postage stamp-size backyard nurtured more than just weeds, herbs, and hot peppers … this is the salad I would make for myself.

In contrast, the crispy pork ribs ($10) were less successful. Although the Korean kal-bi like sweet soy “sticky sauce” is on point, the ribs themselves are tough and unforgiving. Efforts to free the meat from the bone result in a scene more befitting a hungry hyena than a first date. On the other hand, seeing how a potential mate handles such an oral tug-of-war might be a good idea after all.

Service is warm and efficient, and the closely set seating lends itself to crossover conversations with fellow diners. While normally one to give a wide berth to communal table situations, the low-key, friendly ambiance is, well, downright familial.

When approaching the Nashville-style hot chicken, I started in the shallow end with the quarter bird ($6.75 leg and thigh/$7.25 breast and wing) prepared mild. The breaded poultry is fried to an enduring outer crunch and then hand coated with a mix of (educated guess) brown sugar, black pepper, and garlic powder, plus cumin, smoked paprika, and lard. In addition, much like Indian or Thai cuisine, note that even the ‘mild’ has a small touch of heat.

Served on a slice of white sandwich bread and accompanied by three lightly brined bread-and-butter pickles, the chicken itself is at once crisp and juicy. Arguably, it’s at the hot level ($14 half chicken/$26 whole) that the dish achieves true Nashville distinction. The melange of black pepper, smoked paprika, and sweet sugar hit first, followed by a slow burn at the back of the throat. The chicken’s inherent mildness helps to temper any real intensity, and the heat lingers for just a few seconds. In other words, order it this way if you can.

I have to imagine that the fire seasoning is closest to what Thornton Prince was served that fateful morning. With a similar sweet/smoky start, the cayenne comes on late and strong, resulting in a long-lasting smolder that can be felt — more than tasted — down one’s throat. It’s also now clear why Thornton didn’t take his punishment all that seriously, as the cayenne’s heat falls in the comparably bearable middle of the Scoville scale, far below the brutal habanero, Scotch bonnet, or bhut jolokia (a.k.a. ghost pepper).

For those less inclined toward spicy food, the B.L.T. ($9) beckons. While not entirely devoid of spice — there are traces of a rub evocative of that on the chicken — the three large, tender slices of smoked pork belly are in genteel company. Placed in a soft, sweet bun along with a fat, juicy slice of heirloom tomato and salad-sized pile of baby red and romaine lettuce, it’s a light, upscale take on the classic sandwich.

Served with pickles and Zapp’s potato chips, upgrading to a housemade side will set you back an additional $2. The cucumber salad ($3.75 a la carte) is an unexpected pleasure. Large chunks of seeded cucumber are tossed with parsley, dill seed, and a sour cream-based dressing. Simple and refreshing, you get the sense that whoever is making this food gives a damn, and is enjoying themselves at the same time.

Meanwhile, the tender pit-cooked beans ($4) lounge in a tangy barbecue sauce and are accompanied by hefty chunks of smoky pulled pork. Chockablock with the tender meat, the generous portion could serve as a meal unto itself.

Last up, the sweet corn salad ($4) took somebody some time to prepare. Freshly shaved from the cob, the toothy grids of corn are combined with diced red onions, parsley, and bell peppers, and tossed in a simple vinaigrette. It’s an uncomplicated taste of summer that also feels like a labor of love.

Living up to its endearing name in both food and service, KinFolk is a charming outpost and a welcome addition to the Charleston family, not to mention a kickass, passive aggressive way to make a cheating (now) ex sweat.

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While long-celebrated for our antebellum mansions, moss-covered live oaks, and romantic cobblestone streets, in the past few years, Charleston has added a new draw to the list. Move over shrimp and grits — the likes of Rodney Scott, John Lewis, and Fiery Ron (aka Aaron Siegel) are redefining “Lowcountry cuisine.”

In a landscape dotted with superior barbecue options so stellar they include a James Beard Award winner, do we really need more? Enter Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint, and a bid to answer that question.

Set off Folly Road on James Island, this recent newcomer is no rookie when it comes to smoking meat. Founded in 2006 in Nolensville, Tenn., this is the 10th Martin’s location along with others in Alabama, Kentucky, and the Volunteer State.

In keeping with its geographic footprint, the menu is vast and covers a wide gamut of options. Appetizers include classic deviled eggs ($4.99), pulled pork-covered BBQ nachos ($10.99), and a half-dozen freshly fried hushpuppies ($4.49). Crisp, fluffy, and imbued with a slight onion flavor, they’re accompanied by a ramekin of comeback sauce, the caper-less kissing cousin of remoulade.

Set in the former Sermet’s Southernterranean spot, Martin’s employs the fairly commonplace “order at the counter and find a seat” semi-self-service model. The space itself is expansive and laid-back, with indoor, outdoor, and open-air options, as well as a large covered bar in the patio area.

While everyone knows you don’t win friends with salad, Martin’s seems determined to prove that wrong, starting with the unexpectedly fresh and flavorful farmer’s salad ($8.99). A bed of crisp spinach and iceberg lettuce are topped with a festive mix of pickled onions, toasted pecans, cheddar cheese and cucumbers, as well as pulled smoked chicken, carrot rounds, and corn kernels. Served with a zingy homemade vinaigrette, each bite offers a different mix of clean flavors.

At the other end of the spectrum, the Southern “Paddy” Melt ($10.99 with a side/$8.74 sandwich only) is a heavyweight. Downright lavish, the large, juicy burger is brushed with Sweet Dixie BBQ sauce, then topped with caramelized onions and pimento cheese, and served on heavily buttered, grilled white bread. Cheesy, greasy, and notably sweet, request a hold on the Sweet Dixie if that last part isn’t your thing.

Also from the kitchen, the duo of catfish tacos ($11.99) feature fresh flour tortillas filled with an ample supply of farm-raised catfish. Heavily breaded in a flavorful batter reminiscent of KFC and glued in place by a bottom layer of melted cheese, the crisp fish is then topped with sweet slaw, pickled jalapenos, and fresh cilantro. As tacos go, it’s a good one, offering another pleasing choice for lighter appetites or those wishing to avoid the meat sweats.

Speaking of which, most likely, if you’ve come to a barbecue joint, you’re seeking smoked meat of some sort. And from entirety of hog to wing of chicken, Martin’s has got you covered.

There are barbecue trays, as well as a variety of sandwiches starring an array of meats. Available wet or dry, the spare ribs (1.5 pounds/$10.99, 2 pounds/$14.99) are beautifully smoked. Despite being given a less-desirable, cartilage-filled end piece, the cookery was spot-on perfect and the meat moist throughout. Similarly, the sliced beef brisket ($15.99) is juicy and intensely smoky, coated in a black pepper rub that gives it a little kick.

While the lovingly prepared meats don’t ‘need’ sauce, there are plenty to choose from, including vinegar-based Jack’s Creek, mustard-hued Palmetto Gold, and mayo-filled Alabama White. Along with some tartness, Sweet Dixie lives up to its name, while Devil’s Nectar will blow you into next year. “No!” exclaimed my dining companion as the initial molasses flavor subsided and the intense, long-lasting heat presumably kicked in. And lingered for several long minutes. Consider ordering a glass of milk in advance.

While there are 11 sides to choose from, vegetarians and vegans can expect to be pretty hard up, as even the green beans seemed to contain meat of some sort. However, non-violators include the standard issue slaw ($2.50), a relatively bland offering made with cabbage and mayo. Likewise, the mac and cheese ($2.50) is acceptable, with a creamy texture and a titch too many breadcrumbs.

The broccoli salad follows the standard issue church potluck recipe, with shredded cheddar, chopped pecans, and Craisins. A first for my dining companion, he likened it to eating “the scrapings from inside a raw pumpkin.” In contrast, we fought for control of the hoe cake, a simple, savory cornmeal pancake whose understated flavors complement the smoky meats.

Speaking of which, the whole hog ($12.99) is juicy and flavorful, and the sliced smoked turkey ($14.49) tender as can be, a true testimony to the folks working the pits. It’s one thing for Pat Martin to win over Nolensville with his well-honed pitmaster skills, but quite another to train others — longtime friend John Haire in Charleston’s case — across four states to (presumably) do it just as well.

While folks will no doubt continue to dine with Rodney Scott, John Lewis, Fiery Ron, and the other outstanding barbecue joints in the area, this new kid from Tennessee brings just as strong a game, rendering our local ‘cue scene better than ever. Barbecue enthusiasts, Folly Beach goers, and Jim Isle residents, rejoice.

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For nearly 70 years, South of the Border in Hamer has been a welcome pit stop or overnight host for weary drivers traveling up and down the I-95 corridor. But before the roadside landscape from Virginia to Georgia was brimming with miles of colorful, humorous ‘come hither’ billboards, there was Alan Schafer.

His roots run deep. Back in the late 1860’s, Alan’s German-American grandfather, Abraham, came to Little Rock, SC, and was one of the first Jews to settle in the area. Soon thereafter, in 1870, Abraham purchased a general store from his employer, Tom Dillon, and founded The Schafer Company.

In 1888, son Sam Schafer was born, eventually growing up to assume the role of general manager of the dry goods portion of The Schafer Company, while father Abraham continued to oversee the grocery and hardware divisions. Alan first entered the scene in 1914, and ultimately graduated from Dillon High School in 1930. That same year, he left for Columbia and attended the University of South Carolina, where he was pursuing a major in journalism.

However, in 1933, shortly before Alan’s senior year, his father, Sam, implored him to return home, as Abraham’s health was failing. The eldest Shafer passed away that fall, just as an unlikely new business opportunity surfaced. Realizing the potential in the repeal of Prohibition, Sam took a trip to Baltimore and returned with a truckload of beer. It didn’t take long before they discovered that the same people who had struggled to pay their grocery bill were somehow able to purchase the bottles of ale.

THE EARLY DAYS

Soon thereafter, father Sam and son Alan formed the Schafer Distributing Company. Alan passed away in 1945, but Alan continued to grow the business, eventually expanding it to include warehouses in North Carolina. In 1948, North Carolina passed a ‘local option’ law, which allowed for county-based legislation regarding the sale of alcohol. Robeson County, across the border from Dillon, was the first to vote it into effect, suddenly becoming a dry county. Recognizing the favorable circumstances, Alan purchased three acres of land on U.S. 301 and built an 18’ x 36’ cinderblock building on the site. Legend has it the building materials for the structure were addressed to the “Schafer Project South of the North Carolina Border,” a name that inspired Alan to dub his new enterprise “South of the Border Beer Depot.” Soon, he was legally selling up to two cases of beer per person, intended for transport across the state line.

At its inception, the beer depot had a six-stool bar area. To appease North Carolina lawmakers and the Robeson County sheriff, the space was soon expanded into a grill selling hot dogs and hamburgers. The name was also changed to South of the Border Drive-In. These modifications resulted in an unexpected boon, as it turns out the small eatery was the only place along that portion of U.S. 301 where a traveler could get a bite to eat without venturing off the highway. It did so well that, despite continued success in the beer distribution business, the restaurant’s sales were soon outpacing everything else.

Over the next two years, a small motel and gas station were added, and by the mid-1950s, the establishment’s name was abbreviated to South of the Border. Soon thereafter, the campy Mexican theme emerged, along with the trinkets and memorabilia still sold today. “My grandfather went down to Mexico to source all that at first,” recounts Ryan Schafer, Alan’s grandson and the current owner of S.O.B. “Two of the guys he met on a trip down there wanted to come back to the United States, so he helped them immigrate and gave them jobs as bellboys in the motel.”

As the Mexican employees settled into their new lives and posts at the burgeoning South Carolina enterprise, visitors began to refer to them both as ‘Pedro,’ thus sealing the deal on what has now become an occasional source of discomfort, dispute and misunderstanding in online reviews and publications. While there are some who find Pedro and the kitschy Mexican-themed products and trinkets insensitive or even racist, Ryan reports it’s rarely an issue with visitors.

“Most people enjoy the Pedro theme, and understand it’s good-natured,” Ryan notes. “Every now and then we get somebody that complains, but, honestly, they’re never Mexican or even Hispanic.” As for the Mexican men that originally inspired the trope? “They still live around here,” says Ryan. “They’ve got to be in their 70’s — or older — by now, but they come by, and we see them from time to time.”

EXPANDING THE BUSINESS

In 1956, Eisenhower announced the inception of the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways, a plan to construct a national road grid. A new highway, spanning from Miami to the Houlton–Woodstock Border Crossing in Maine, was planned. When Alan Schafer learned it would enter South Carolina near the junction of U.S. 301 and U.S. 501 and within the range of his current ventures, he began buying up land in the area. This shrewd act of foresight ultimately resulted in today’s South of the Border tourist complex.

While the enterprises and entertainment found at S.O.B. have shifted over the decades, these days, the 300-acre roadside attraction offers 100 full hook-up RV sites, plus a 300-room motor inn boasting both indoor and outdoor pools. There are also two gas stations, as well as six restaurants, including the dinner-only Peddler Steak House and the hat-shaped Sombrero Restaurant, which matches customer’s donations to the Shriner’s Children’s Hospital and commemorates them on the wall.

Along with a 200-foot tall sombrero-topped observation tower (whose neon glow can be seen lighting the night sky for miles in every direction), South of the Border features a convention and banquet center that can accommodate up to 700 guests. You may wonder who’s booking these facilities. “People get married here all the time,” shares Ryan, “probably around 20 couples every year, maybe more. Sometimes it’s because they came here when they were kids, and up until the 80s, it was a lot easier to get married here in South Carolina because we didn’t require a blood test. We’ve got two people on staff that can legally perform the marriage. We can do it with a day or so of notice.”

Even if tying the knot isn’t in your plans, there are still opportunities for selfies galore. Along with a cast of giant, whimsical, Instagram-worthy statues (including a bright red, 100-foot long Dachsund/weiner dog), available for purchase is pretty much every form of souvenir known to man, ever. Always wished for a picture of yourself in a heavily embellished sombrero or ten? This is the place.

For the young and young at heart/lower back, Pedroland is an amusement park featuring a Ferris wheel, bumper cars and a simulator ride, among others. There’s also an arcade, located in the base of the sombrero observation tower, as well as two, 18-hole championship miniature golf courses, the professional Master’s of which is held every October in North Myrtle Beach.

Fort Pedro’s Fireworks Shop is why Ryan reports that July is South of the Border’s busiest time, “We sell a lot of fireworks. Even though they’re legal in a lot of places now, they’re still very popular. We also sell a lot of sombreros and a lot of key chains,” he continues. ““And lately we’ve gotten into Mexican pottery, such as Talavera animals from the Puebla area.”

Indeed, along with the self-proclaimed “largest stock of fireworks on the East Coast,” the souvenir shops are chockablock with S.O.B. memorabilia and a rather extraordinary assortment of Mexican items. But it’s not all shot glasses and sombreros. There are also intentionally campy and off-color gifts, like plastic poop, a roll with packaging emblazoned with “Generic Toilet Paper for Cheap Bastards” or adult gag gifts like the, ahem, ‘Peter meter.’

As for the hops-flavored alcoholic beverage that started it all? “We still sell beer,” confirms Ryan. “Our selection is fairly extensive, but it’s not a huge part of the business anymore. North Carolina is no longer dry, and they can even buy it there on Sundays.”

RECENT DEVELOPMENTS

Alas, change is inevitable, although not necessarily a bad thing. In 2012, Ryan, an avid motocross fan, opened the cleverly-named SOBMX. It features four competition-caliber Supercross, Arenacross and motocross tracks, two of which are open to all levels of skill, and two that are limited to professionals. Speaking of whom, there is also a professional SOBMX motocross racing team, as well as a kid-filled amateur team made up of both male and female racers. And for those who might be interested in taking up the sport, there’s also a structured training program with three dedicated professionals at the helm.

But despite all that, Ryan reports that his current favorite attraction is one that doesn’t get as much love from visitors. “The Reptile Lagoon gets overlooked because it’s further from the road,” he states. “It’s our newest attraction, and as far as the doctor whose animals are displayed there and I know, it’s the largest reptile zoo in the U.S. We’ve got alligators, frogs and turtles, along with hundreds of snakes. We also have several species of crocodiles, along with a huge snake that’s something like 21 or 22-feet long.”

There’s also a giant tortoise from Aldabra, Africa in the Indian Ocean, plus the New Guinean Fly River or pig-nose turtle, a rare freshwater turtle that has true flippers like the ocean-going varieties. While a percentage of every admission fee is donated to the Crocodile Conservation charity, the Reptile Lagoon isn’t a non-profit affair. As visitors exit, they pass through the gift shop, filled (perhaps not surprisingly) with a plethora of reptile-themed souvenirs.

As for the future of this long-standing, family-run business, Ryan notes, “I’ve got a son, but he’s only 12 and hasn’t shown much interest in running South of the Border yet.” While that’s understandable, no doubt the throngs of hungry, curious travelers who visit the nostalgic pit stop every year are hoping that the young Schafer eventually changes his mind and one day dons the symbolic sombrero.

The post For Over 60 Years, South of the Border Provides Clean, Campy Fun (Currents Magazine) appeared first on Vanessa Wolf, MBA.

Once upon a time, three months ago, I purchased a single glass of orange juice and four slices of bacon for my hangry four-year-old. The price tag: $21 plus tax and tip. The explanation: fancy hotel restaurant.

Accordingly, let’s talk about Gabrielle, a lovely eatery tucked in the back right corner of the elegant new Hotel Bennett. Boasting a French patisserie, spa, and rooftop pool, the luxury hotel is undeniably posh. The Gabrielle menu is equally upscale, merging French and Southern sensibilities.

The escargot bruschetta ($19) is a beautiful mess. While the construction choice — arguably more “fancy toast” than anything — is inscrutable, the flavors are rich, yet balanced. Note the single slice of chewy bread — topped with chopped tomatoes, herb-infused cream sauce, and six round, rolling-all-over-everywhere-snails — is hard to pick up, let alone share. Applying a knife and fork, and treating it like an open-face sandwich seems to be the best approach. Regardless of manageability, each tarragon-scented, shaved fennel-enhanced bite is a celebration.

Meanwhile, the lamb tartare ($17) is delightfully fresh, and the chopped meat surprisingly delicate. However, it lacks flavor, the only real discernable notes being that of paprika oil. The dot of deviled egg yolk on top imparts a notable horseradish punch, and there’s ample salt in the accompanying eight hand-cut potato gaufrettes, but run out of those and you run out of seasoning.

The restaurant itself is formal and refined, with white tablecloths, upholstered chairs, and Swarovski-laden netting draped from the ceiling. There are also a small cluster of tables outside offering superlative views of Marion Square, but note that sitting out there is the equivalent of wearing a cloak of invisibility.

Service is where Gabrielle struggles, and the struggle is real. Despite offering breakfast, lunch, and dinner service, the hostess stand goes largely unmanned. Even once eventually seated, service itself grinds to a reluctant, confused start. Apparently staffing is based on confirmed reservations — suffice it to say, the waiter was very chatty — and more than one person mentioned their rookie status. Nonetheless, what the staff may be lacking in tenure and expertise, they make up for in sweet-natured, earnest effort. At the same time, when shelling out $9 for a side of mashed potatoes, good intentions may not be enough.

As for the food, and owing to the waiter’s unfamiliarity with the menu, the flounder ($33), ordered sauteed and accompanied by foie gras butter sauce, was a gamble. However, what arrived was impeccably prepared, with a crisply seared exterior, yet moist and flaky inside. While the portion — two small filets — is modest, it’s sufficient.

The fish comes a la carte, so if you want to be full, you’ll need to order some sides. The Brabant potatoes ($9), also known as Louisiana fries, are typically peeled, cubed, and blanched, then deep fried and tossed in a rich butter-garlic sauce, much like their easygoing second-cousin, ballpark garlic fries. However, perhaps because of the plating (a bouillon bowl, the bottom of which all the good stuff has navigated), the fries stand out as a preferable delivery system. Nonetheless, and regardless of nuances, you can’t go too wrong with fried potatoes tossed with freshly chopped garlic and parsley.

In contrast, the roasted turmeric cauliflower ($11) made me stroke my imaginary beard. At first glance, it’s gorgeously seared to a rich brown on one side and adorned with almonds, raisins and capers. Upon further investigation, it’s tragically overcooked to a state of mush and lacks seasoning. All sizzle and no steak, even the crisp-looking sear lacks fortitude, a feat of its own.

Three cheers for the duck a l’orange ($35), a testimony to the heights of which the kitchen is capable. Beautifully presented, the delectable, crisp skin on the bird is perfection. Same goes for the tender meat. Plated with orange sections and three tourneed, roasted turnips, this was the unexpected highlight of the meal. My dining companion may have summed it up best, “They must have beat that bird before they killed it, because that is some tender flesh.”

With French-influenced, New Orleans-honed sensibilities and locally sourced ingredients, Gabrielle’s elegant, polished cuisine will likely place her firmly in the “It Girl” running. Yes, prices are high, and service can feel like amateur hour, but if you (or they) can get past these things, there is plenty to love here.

The post Elegant execution despite some shortcomings at Gabrielle (Charleston City Paper) appeared first on Vanessa Wolf, MBA.

Thus, in late October 2018, adjacent sister restaurant Closed for Business permanently called it a day. Restaurateurs Tim Mink and Brooks Reitz, the powerhouse duo behind Leon’s, Melfi’s, and Little Jack’s Tavern, spearheaded the overhaul. After tearing down the walls between the two establishments, they reconfigured the space, added a full bar, and modified the menu.

In summary, where the original Monza was narrow and cozy, the ’19 edition feels spacious and modern. Named for the historic Italian track, there’s still a subtle motor racing theme, mostly conveyed through old photos and the arty pizza boxes. In contrast to the expanded space, the updated menu presents a notably edited version of its predecessor.

The antipasti platter ($20) endures, and individual selections are now available a la carte for $6 a piece. The butterbean salad ($10) also remains. These days, the salad is served cold, the meaty beans tossed with crisp celery slices and a single cherry tomato, cut into quarters. Along with fresh fennel and mint, the toothy beans are imbued with the flavors of lemon and olive oil. Topped with creme fraiche and a sprinkle of crunchy breadcrumbs, it’s a bright, balanced selection, about as satisfying as a salad can be.

New to the menu, the ricotta meatballs ($13) are surprisingly tender, presumably thanks to the otherwise indiscernible cheese. Mildly flavored with visible fennel seeds, three substantial meatballs are bathed in a delicate red sauce, teeming with fresh tomato flavor. Accompanied by “naked pizza” — airy, wood-fired dough dusted with olive oil and parmesan — it’s a straightforward, shareable app that works.

In contrast, the shrimp scampi ($20) is disappointing. Getting recommendations from the despondent server was not easy, but she seemed to brighten up a touch while endorsing this dish. Alas, what arrives is a small bundle of linguine dressed with olive oil, lemon juice, and parmesan cheese, plus an unnamed mystery ingredient that’s unexpectedly really effing spicy. Each bite blazes a trail down one’s throat. Topped with six well-prepared shrimp, it’s alright, but not anything I’d order again.

In other news, the decision to combine the two restaurant spaces was a good one. Although open and lofty — a recipe for deafening noise levels — the vibe is pleasantly chill. Meanwhile, service was, for lack of a better word, depressed. Beyond taking our order, our particular server somewhat attended to our needs, for the most part talking with a fellow server and laying low.

A cheerful coworker delivered the Enzo pizza ($17), adorned with “pistachio pesto, smashed baby potatoes, and prosciutto, and finished with parmagiano fondue.” It sounded provocative, but, to quote my notes, “If fed this while blindfolded, I would not guess it was pizza.” The ingredients were clearly fresh and of the highest quality, but ultimately a celebration of blandness. The rare smashed potato — I consumed two slices without encountering one — is rich and buttery, but in short supply. If you’re familiar with the traditional Roman potato pizza, covered edge-to-edge with overlapping slices and dusted with rosemary, this is not that. Nonetheless, the thin, lightly charred crust shines.

On that note, let’s talk about the Count Louis pizza ($16). Historically, the Count Louis of yore was topped with roasted mushrooms, thick slices of pepperoni, and an ample layer of mozzarella and parmesan. These days, it’s a scantily clad pepperoni number, with two small rounds per slice.

Our new-look presentation was then adorned with a trio of Calabrian chili peppers, stacked in the center of the pie. Attempts to cut and spread the three tiny capsicums amongst the six slices left my dining companions to comment, “Spread the love. Why are they making us fight over three tiny peppers!?”

Alas, it’s still a great pizza. And such First World hang-ups point to what seems to be the fundamental driver behind the changes at Monza, the bottom line. Hey, I get it. King Street rents are expensive AF. Similarly, it seems the reinvented Monza Pizza Bar is managing that with a focus on a new target audience — hungry people who already happen to be on King Street, a.k.a. tourists.

As Charleston continues to skyrocket in price per square foot, win travel magazine accolades, and attract curious outsiders, these transformations will no doubt continue as a result of the fundamental effort to stay profitable. In the words of legendary stock car driver Dale Earnhardt, “The winner ain’t the one with the fastest car, it’s the one who refuses to lose.”

The post Newer, bigger Monza shifts gears on a growing stretch of upper King Street (Charleston City Paper) appeared first on Vanessa Wolf, MBA.

As the boundaries of what is considered “living in Charleston” continue to expand, so do the business enterprises once limited to the 29401. Set on Johns Island between Wild Olive and The Fat Hen, The Royal Tern is a welcome and well-positioned addition to that existing pair of successful Maybank Highway restaurants.

First and foremost, the building is glorious. Outside, it’s effortlessly stylish and would look just as appropriate nestled amongst a row of upscale beachfront estates. Inside, the chic, airy space boasts wood floors and high ceilings adorned with dramatic lights that resemble giant clusters of white grapes. The interior incorporates a number of current trends, including an open kitchen, marble-topped bar, and miles of banquette seating. The building is also incredibly loud, so if there is a conversation you’ve been meaning to avoid, this would be a great place to not have it.

With a focus on fish, the menu offers an aquarium-full of options. Along with a raw bar, there are fried “and chips” platters, elegant small plates, and four variations of cooked oysters. Add to that a handful of sandwiches, a half-dozen seafood entrees, and a hat trick of wood-fired steaks, and it’s a rather ambitious reach.

On the appetizer side of things, expect some basic standbys like fried calamari ($12) and a crab cake ($13), which render the potted shrimp and gravlax ($16) the exotic pick. Served on a wooden board, it’s the pescatarian answer to charcuterie, and includes four chunks of crustless grilled rye bread, a glob of Dijon mustard, and a fanning of buttered crackers, as well as capers and a host of other clutter. For its part, the potted shrimp is delicate and buttery. Permeated with the flavor of the sweet shellfish, it’s balanced with a touch of fragrant nutmeg. Equally sublime, the salmon gravlax is lightly cured and seasoned, letting the fresh flavor shine through. The abundance of Marie Kondo-defying accouterments aside, the delicate, namesake seafood preparations are a welcome testament to restraint.

Hailing from New Orleans, the BBQ Shrimp ($12) are a little cheekier. Here, seven large, tail-on shrimp bathe in a deep bowl of oregano, thyme, and lemon-flavored broth dotted with diced garlic. Mellow and Worcestershire sauce-forward, it’s a messy undertaking and the accompanying half of a grilled po’ boy bun provides insufficient sauce-soaking strength. Although the waiter did eventually deliver the promised finger bowls, it was long after irrevocable damage had been done to my napkin. Proceed with caution.

Also flavor-forward, the poke ($14) arrives heavy with powerful soy, sesame oil, and fresh chili purpose. Dotted with mango and sesame seeds, and served with two, thick, sesame-seed covered wonton chips, the intense flavor profile is more pungent than a traditional Hawaiian marinade, but works on this scale as a small shared plate.

Likewise, the scallop ($12) is eyebrow-archingly dainty, yet memorable. Accurately named, what we’re talking about is a single, raw scallop that’s been cut into six paper-thin slices and circled around a spoonful of caviar. Drizzled with olive oil and dusted with lemon zest, chives, and olive oil, the scallop acts as a vehicle for the other flavors. Here’s what it is: Fresh and citrus-forward, with a delicate composition and salty caviar finish. Here’s what it isn’t: Filling. Only slightly larger than an amuse bouche, if you’re into experience over satiation, do not miss this beautiful palate cleanser.

Along with the varied array of dishes is an equally crowd-pleasing list of cocktail offerings, including an oyster shooter ($6). There’s also white sangria ($11.50) made with cucumber, the vodka-based Wolfe martini ($12), and a traditional Peruvian pisco sour ($10). The restaurant is quite popular and consistently busy, so while the servers are friendly and informative, they seem to be stretched thin. Expect dishes to arrive clustered in waves, with long pauses in between courses.

When it does arrive, the swordfish ($29) is an interesting brainchild. If you simply heard the ingredients, you might think it was Cream of Yesterday: four baby potatoes, some blackened swordfish, and a piece of roasted broccolini, plus a ham and leek bisque.

Perfectly cooked, the thin cut of meaty fish is remarkably tender, while the broccolini is also outstanding, imbued with smoky notes from the wood fire grill. These items, together with the tiny potatoes, are plated atop a mild, chunky ham and leek bisque that would, I can say without hesitation, be better off played by a creamy Creole or anchovy and olive-spiked Portuguese sauce.

The chicken sandwich ($13) meanwhile, is what it sounds like, with a small grilled or fried boneless, skinless thigh served BLT-style on a toasted Hawaiian bun. It’s accompanied by pickles, as well as some lightly garlic powder-dusted French fries. The Royal Tern doesn’t offer lunch service, so it’s safe to say that anyone inclined toward a simple chicken sandwich at a dinner-only seafood restaurant will likely find this version satisfactory.

One of the best-looking joints in the area, The Royal Tern offers a hip, airy, and occasionally deafening place to scratch a variety of seafood itches on Johns Island. With a near-cheddar bay biscuit-level desire to satisfy all tastes, not everything on the sweeping menu is like shooting fish in a barrel. However, as evidenced by some solid chef skills and several moments of elegant triumph, great things are likely to come.

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