A few weeks ago I moved a very good friend of mine to Charleston, South Carolina. I stayed a few days, until she settled in, giving myself some time to explore while she worked, whined, complained, and generally adjusted to her new city.A pale pastel feeling poured over me as a cruised through Charleston in the mid-afternoon, a feeling that only a southern city could provide for my stone-cold yankee heart. Even with its pastel facade, it was a city full of history, deep memories of heavy stone and brick.
But the dynamic of the city is lacking an insatiable substance - like only the shell of a Faberge egg. Who are the locals? Where do the citizens, the native community of Charleston, exist?
It seems like these Charlestonians left, or are being pushed aside, in favor of a national (seemingly northern) dynamic. The “substance” of this eloquently southern city is washing away, leaving something in Charleston to be desired...
The restaurant at which we dined seemed to capture this image (my mind’s image) of Charleston.
The quaint little Mediterranean cafe-ish (what I would call more of a trattoria) establishment, Sermet’s Corner (an unfortunate name), caught our attention as we hungrily paced King street in downtown Charleston. A prime location, on King street, just shy of “South of Broad,” the corner establishment seemed harmless, unassuming, and in the perfect location for our dining pleasure.
It was a large, single room space. A petite bar ran alongside the far left wall while the rest of the tables for dining (consisting of perhaps twenty four) filled the remainder of the room. We were sat by a very pleasant-looking exotic gentleman in the corner next to King street - the perfect people-watching location - against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
The interior was a lightwood accented with wrought iron ornamentation. Two pillars stood stoically in the middle of the dining room with carved iron wine bottle holders attached like necessary appendages. Our waitress was a cold type, probably pinning us as the northerners we were, and she thought she’d treat us as such (something of which I am certainly in favor). Lacking that slight twinge South Carolinians seem to have, she seemed like a northern transplant, anyway.
Without admitting it, the place was italo-centric. The traditional pasta dishes littering the entree listings, a fresh mozzarella and tomato pesto sandwich, and an extensive wine list gave them away. In line with the greatest of Italian restaurants, the draft list was questionable: three beers on tap, one of which had been kicked for the night by 8 p.m. No worry, the bottle list was actually decent. As I perused the bottle list, I recognized all but one. A brew called, Palmetto Amber. I inquired with our possibly yankish server to find it was a local Charleston brewery. Naturally, I ordered one.
It was a seductive amber color (oddly enough...) with a deliciously nutty, caramel scent and (something which I have found recently to be a serious issue in the craft brewery industry) not a bad looking bottle. Definitely a smooth, inoffensive quality of drinkability with a nutty, earthy feel. The draught finished with a slight, but acute citrus/fruity sting. Honestly, not much imagination to it, leaving something, certainly, to be desired.
We ordered from a truly verbose menu (with grammatical errors as my companion pointed out). But, none-the-less, mouth watering. An excerpt from the brunch menu: “Cinnamon-orange scented French toast with sweet ricotta and warm honey.” (wow)
I ordered a chicken and spiced-sausage dish sautéed with a red wine reduction over penne. It sounded just deliciously inviting.
We chatted lightly over a second drink, for me a regression to an old favorite, Sierra Nevada’s Pale Ale, and enjoyed the complimentary, dare I say, Italian bread with tomato infused olive oil while we waited for our dinner.
Dinner arrived in good time.
My pasta dish was swimming in an oily slime of a cream sauce which turned me off right away, not very delicate. Though a little sloppy, the sauce was quite good. Overall, however, I’d say this wasn’t their best performance. Sausage hunks floated around in the saucy ooze topped with frozen peas. Seemed as though the chef was in a hurry.
Honestly, the experience was tolerable (though the food not). The place was quaint and aesthetic pleasing. The company was good. But again, a gapping hole was left unfulfilled, unsatisfied, needing a second look at the city of Charleston.
