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2063 Middle St., Sullivan’s Island
1081 Morrison Dr.
624 Long Point Rd.,
1035 Johnnie Dodds Blvd., B-9,
298 King St.,
Perhaps this diversity in the menu comes almost entirely from chef Berry’s stated devotion to local sourcing.
You could spend a week out on the open ocean, braving the tempest with Mark Marhefka on his local fishing boat, Amy Marie, and your calloused hands wouldn’t reveal the secrets of Coda del Pesce.
If someone asks you where to get the best pork rinds in town, you can send them to Warehouse with confidence.
The first time you visit Craftsmen, you’ll need to take a tour. Head to the back—that’s the best way I know to direct you through this labyrinthine space in all its fermented glory.
No one stumbles upon The Ocean Room. More than any other Lowcountry restaurant, you make a deliberate effort to be here and bring your wallet with the intention of relinquishing it in the pursuit of pure luxury.
In some primitive and proverbial context, someone once mashed together crushed grain and water, left it in a cool place populated with natural yeasts, and smashed it flat before draping it over a hot rock next to the fire. James Island’s newest wood-fired oven, Crust, isn’t far removed from that ancient commencement.
You may not correctly pronounce okonomiyaki, but you find a way to order it because everyone else is eating the crispy cabbage pancake adorned with roasted kale, scallions, carrot, bacon, and a fried egg, too.
Go early or be prepared to wait. You’ll want an ample appetite and a pack of friends.
From my third-floor window perch in our Upper King apartment, I would watch my wife walk north on King Street towards the building that is now The Ordinary.
The rooftop is a madhouse on Saturday night, stuffed to the gills with the kinds of people who know what brand of shoes they’re wearing.
I started with the kale soup. Really, I wanted the headcheese, but my daughter claimed it. I wanted a booth, too
There was a time when a carnivorous predilection for sausages, charcuterie, and the best fried chicken livers in the Lowcountry meant a trip to East Bay Street and passage through the timeworn brick arches of venerable old chophouse High Cotton.
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