Is she going to the beach? Or returning thence? Perhaps she just came from some luxurious pool nestled in some refuge of dryads? That could be it. But wait: it appears she is stopping at the corner; she is looking around—is she casing a house? No, don’t call the authorities—no one likes a snitch, plus there are cameras everywhere: our own self-imposed panopticon. Her appearance is neither refined nor downtrodden, but the ubiquitous bourgeois fashion of our times: relaxed athleisure. What is that she is doing? She’s opening her bag and—pulling out a folding chair. She pops it open and sets it just to the side of the threshold of a chamfered corner entry. You expect her next move is to lay out her wares, some personal hobby of hers designing jewelry and selling them on street corners. Instead, she pulls out a book and begins to read.

An hour passes. A middle-aged couple approaches the corner. They are dressed in flowery garb, a model of Tommy Bahama. The man carries two narrow bags similar to the one carried by the woman still reading at the corner. And just like her, they pop open chairs. They take their seats nearby, mere feet up Coming Street.

Thirty minutes pass. A young woman strides in. She is wearing a tight top, her arms bare. Her shorts are short. Her brunette hair is pulled back tight. On her back is a narrow bag. Is she going to or from the gym? No, she walks past the three idlers, opens her bag, and produces a chair. She takes her seat and pulls out her cell phone. She begins to scroll.

Fifteen minutes pass. Three even younger women appear. They are practically in their swimwear. Surely—surely—they are going to the beach on this Friday afternoon. Those bags they carry are typical of the beachgoer. But, again, they walk up Coming, past the four idlers, and take their seats in the shade of a dwarf tree. They take out laptops and begin to click and type and scroll.

Forty-five minutes pass. What was once seven idlers is now twenty. You count thirteen chairs placed on the narrow sidewalk up Coming Street. Interspersed towards the tail of this queue are the seven standers. Some have their arms crossed, others wave them about to keep themselves cool in this heat. Of these twenty, perhaps twelve of them look dressed for something other than the beach. None wear jackets or ties; the dress is informal. The ages range from eighteen to sixty. You begin to wonder what they are waiting for.

An hour passes. Coming Street is now slammed with vehicles barreling to the on ramp of 26. What was twenty idlers is now close to one hundred. After about the seventy-fifth in the line, the dress is slightly more formal. Girls wear dresses. Men wear collars. There is a young man, could be sixteen at most, standing and waiting alone. There is a young blonde in a tasteful blue dress. She sits alone on the edge of a raised landscaping bed of a house set off Coming Street. There is another blonde, this one shimmering, having absorbed the sun, wearing high-end sunglasses, the lenses a light amber. Her dress is chic, stylish. A group of middle-aged men are deep in discussion. Their posture reveals they have only just met. There is a gaggle of five women in their late twenties in the very rear. They look up the line with concern. One tries counting the individuals in front.

Thirty minutes pass. The door at the corner opens. Those sitting stand. A lurch, an accordion effect. The faces are now all ebullient of those in the line. One by one, two by two, three by three, they are let into Chubby Fish, number twenty-one on North America’s fifty best restaurants in 2026, number nineteen on North America’s best fifty restaurants in 2025, featured in The New York Times fifty best restaurants in America in 2025 and 2026, a semifinalist for Outstanding Restaurant in 2025 and 2026 by the James Beard Foundation, named one of Bon Appétit’s Best New Restaurants in 2019, a Michelin-recommended restaurant in 2025, and helmed by James London who was named a finalist for Best Chef: Southeast by the James Beard Foundation in 2024.

The first in line, the woman who arrived an hour past noon, is a business owner. Her business? Standing in line at Chubby Fish. Her customers arrive and take their table. The middle-aged couple? They are here to dine for the first time, after having been hired as line standers by some app operated from across the continent. That young woman? She works for the woman who was first in line. She has never met her before. They only communicated online. Those young women with laptops? They are college students and sorority sisters. Their elder sister tasked them with standing in line for three different parties who desired a table. A cut of their profits goes to the one who arranged the deal—street walking of a different kind. There are those in line who have travelled from Ladson—they too once stood in line for others, but now they get to have a taste of their own. There are those in line who have just arrived from New York—they read about Chubby Fish on their flight down and decided on the tarmac that their first stop after dropping off their luggage in their hotel would be to stand in line. That young blonde in the tasteful dress? She is a local girl, grew up here. She is downcast, for she knows from experience she is not likely to get a table for her mother and her mother’s friend. The chic one? A local too. Her family were some of the first to move to Daniel Island. She jokes that the head chef is not even here tonight—he’s at an event at The Cooper, freshly opened. The gaggle of girls in their late twenties? Here for a girls’ trip. They don’t know where else to go—Chubby Fish was the first thing to pop up on their search, and they searched no further. Learning they will likely not get a table, they begin scrolling for something else to do. Husk? On a Friday? Maybe they can get a seat at the bar.

What awaits them all? We can only dream.

This is all that needs to be said about supper in Charleston during this age.

There is a period between the afternoon meal and the evening where these experiences are at their most possible. Reinvigorated, feeling loose—depending on what one ate and drank—the craving to become, werden, reaches its peak. The greatest poem of the English language, the conjugation of the verb to be — I am / you are / he is / she is / we are / you are / they are — resounds from the depths of the soul. The sun is at its apotheosis, and we know it only wanes from here on out. Our day cannot end like this: something profound must occur. We must go forth.

To achieve the extraordinary, it requires taking on the customs and attributes of the eternal. But what means do we have here on this plane to wear the vestments of the celestial, to take on the personalities of those loungers above? Very simply, we drink.

But very specifically, it must be wine at this hour. With one glass, there is light beneath us, our gait pétillant, our I tottering on the edge of the Cartesian abyss. We begin to look into our separate selves: Selves — goes itself: myself it speaks and spells. And we lrp the distilled vegetable kingdom, the channel of communication between gods and man. It awakens us to life, and we begin to plan the immortal work, the grand conquest, the triumphant career, or the new arrangement of our studio apartment; our feelings break free, we find love lost and won, enemies no longer such; irresistible delight sweeps over us and warms the heart. Our palace gleams, and the horizon is without limit.

Yet we know it will all be forgotten tomorrow. This radical change in our being, the soaring and plummeting from one life to another and back again.

Beware, some stand against this. There is a pernicious campaign afoot to stigmatize our artifice of the divine. They would rather you sip a thin imposter. But don’t judge!—they’re having just as much fun as you!—in fact more!—and if anyone should be judged it is you for trying to pressure them by the act of drinking alone! I, a bore? You, a boor! Ah, only the sober could be so clever! And onward spiral till no one wants anything to do with the other. Anomie, cradle us. Joie de vivre, spare us.

And so, you’ve had your drink—likely a vin ordinaire, perhaps a bottle of La Vieille Ferme, or as some call it, Skinny Chicken—and you are walking to Colonial Lake up Broad Street to take in the radiance, or maybe you are lingering around Upper King after the thought of going up on a roof seemed to be your idea of achieving the sui generisthat all crave. But you then receive a message, perhaps from a friend, perhaps from a superior at work, maybe even a rival. And there it is, in plain text, the experience that settles social status once and for all, that clearly marks and ennobles you: you’ve been invited on a boat.

How does one receive such an invitation? It’s not that hard, like so much in life one need only be interesting. There are of course the immutable traits—how attractive one is—but do not be deterred: anyone can find themselves drenched in the golden glow upon the harbor with the right social strategy. If you are of the fairer sex, it is prudent to choose a male companion that is sociable. It is mostly incumbent upon him to secure a position aboard. I have seen women near-tears from envy upon hearing of a girl they consider their inferior getting a ride out to the beach. But it is not their fault, but their man’s. He is, simply, not clubbable. He is likely gruff and considers himself too highly though his achievements are mediocre: congrats on being employed, but who do you know and what aspect do you bring to a circle? And as for men, it is recommended you carry yourself, simply, well. This means refraining from braggadocio—as you do not have a boat, at least not yet. Dress well, attend a church two or three times a month. Seem like you have your life together. All of this will inevitably lead to you acquainting yourself with a boatowner. However, do not ask about the boat, merely note the weather, say you fish, say you wonder what it’s like to swim out there as you have a drink with the boatowner at Vendue rooftop. If none of this works, say your lady has always wanted to go on a boat ride; follow this up by suggesting her single friend has never even seen an outboard.

It is upon the water we get our miracle, the day unlike any other. It is where exploration does not cease; it is where we arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. It is there our pleasure reaches beyond measure. It is where moderation in all things, especially moderation, is revealed. Take a gentleman I will call Ashby as an example of the boundless cheer one experiences on the thalassic plain.

He is the quintessential Renaissance Man: crooner, strummer, scribbler, venator, piscator, and able tosspot. For an assignment, he was tasked to document a sailing regatta launching from the Carolina Yacht Club. Though not a member of the CYC, he was welcomed as near a celebrity as one can be in this puddle of ours—announcing yourself as a member of the media causes the people to leap. And so, their cooler became his cooler, their buffet his buffet.

With the briny air sweeping in, the suspense built for the competitors, their adrenaline increased, their minds sharpened on the task. For the onlookers ashore and the many who took to their boats on that summer afternoon the breeze twirled up a gyre in each and every. Ashby afloat upon the bow of a center console, blurry-gazed out at windbound sails as clouds puffing. Tacking and gybing before full sail bloom. Heeling and hiking the race glides silent but for the melodious chop upon the hull and keel. These sounds of globe-spanning empire now reduced to mere hobby.

Ashby would get maybe four good pictures that afternoon. He’d continue his day at the basement of La Banque. Four or five Kronenbourgs later, his affianced arrived for the evening meal and, sadly, his enthusiasm was too much for them to be seated. Before he left, he assured the maître d he had been escorted out of worst places.

But center consoles and being on-the-job while on-the-water are not what the many envision when they think of boating in Charleston and the status conferred from it. They think instead of the very best: they think of booze cruises on yachts.

Your odds of getting on a yacht are slim to none. And yet, we cling to the slim. A booze cruise on a yacht is considered by many the pinnacle of high-status experience here. And so we continue to crave, to seek, to find, and not to yield. There are of course the sordid ways to gain entry, but these will not be delineated here: this physiologie is for all age-groups. But it must be mentioned in passing, as it is an aspect of this era. The other avenues of entry are more difficult. Most of all, it sometimes requires what some call luck. This means you meet the right guy in the right mood in the right setting. Or a friend of a friend finds your sense of humor agreeable one evening at one of the various clubs that play host to the legion of middle-aged single men (and let us be honest, thirty-five is nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita). This friend of a friend, it turns out, is a scion of some industrial entity, and that joke you made about class distinctions in occupations so tickled him he says to your friend and his fraternity brother that you—yes, you—should join them on his family’s yacht next weekend when it pulls into the marina.

This may sound fantastical, but I assure you it is not. There is one such case I know of, and his many dozens of friends and acquaintances do too.

The man I speak of is massive, in physical frame and in personality. He is the Prince of the West, as he hails from the Rockies. Many know of him, as he is gregarious almost to a fault. He is a resident of our city, traveling the world for months and reappearing here without warning. He can speak on just about any subject, as nothing eludes his curiosity. And what does he do for work? He will tell you he has been in the military and finance. You may question this initially, but his knowledge of these sectors cannot possibly come but from someone who has worked in them. All who know him wait in suspense twice a year, once in the fall and the other in the spring, for him to send out his invitations to hop aboard his sixty-footer, one of four of the make and model, to burble across the harbor.

You do not know if the booze cruise will happen until the inboard starts. You hold your breath with anticipation as you hustle on the pier, looking for any sign of the yacht amidst all those many boats in the marina. With the sight of it and the Prince, you slow down—you don’t want to appear too eager! You are asked to take your shoes off before boarding—good thing you trimmed your toenails last week! The crew of three offers to help you in, but you’re an athlete—middle-aged!—but an athlete, as there are girls watching your arrival, and you don’t want to embarrass your host. Finally, aboard, you introduce yourself to the elect. They are a mélange of the Prince’s social circles and further proof of his sociability. You shake the hand of one he met while at Dispensary one evening; you nod towards another he met at The Guild while they relaxed in the communal room. There are couples and singles, a healthy mix—for the Prince has an eye towards how to host a booze cruise. There are no fewer than a dozen all attempting to show poise and indifference to the position—but they all know.

And off it goes, gliding across the chop of the Ashley.

All get a drink and walk to the bow. There they peel off their loose layers—and all are gorgeous, man and woman alike. Some recline on the padded hood and others stand and mingle.

It’s time for small talk.

And what do you do? She’s a wedding planner, and her minimum cost is a quarter-of-a-million. Another works in publishing, as she went to a top university. This other is still trying to find herself—but you are told, at a whisper by a gentleman, she has over ten-thousand followers on some social media platform or another.

First destination: Drum Island. There the remotely operated anchor is launched, and the yacht is held in place for the revelers to disembark into the water if they please. One gentleman—the one the Prince met at Dispensary one evening—has brought some gadget: a surfboard, an electric surfboard, that sports a keel under it allowing him to appear to fly as it rises a few feet above the water. Music is played at an appropriate volume over the yacht’s speakers, but the presence of this ship drowns out the many smaller ones ashore on the island. These some-dozen appear to the onlookers on the beach as a cohort of the sturdiest and bravest, like a hardened troop stands out amidst the green. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t exercised in over a decade, you still emanate beauty thanks to the more attractive around you!

Drenched in drink and sun, it is time to depart from here and to Daniel Island. There the yacht will be tied up, and all will go ashore to the bar where food and more drink will be had. There evening plans are conjured, adventures are recounted. You fit right in with this crowd that you know will never speak to you again in the city. But here, you all are tasting luxury.

The Prince rallies his group, and to the yacht again, and to the river. The sun is behind the city. Many pictures are taken with the steepled skyline. None have too much—it is impossible to have too much! The coolers never seem to suffer a dent in supply: as if they are endlessly refilled after each visit.

The crew does their work effortlessly. This sixty-foot behemoth is shimmied between two lesser at the marina. Lines are tied, and shoes are laid out for the passengers to claim. All bid farewell. Some say see you at (insert gaudy club) in a few. Others know they must go home, but they are more than satisfied with their afternoon. They will likely take a nap from all the sun and booze.

Will this be their last time, some think. If it was, then a damn fine one. Cherish it, a husband says to a wife, who knows where we will be next year—we could have a kid by then, and our adventures will be completely new.

To get on a boat is a serious endeavor. It requires a certain social flexibility. You must at once be interesting and fun, and yet serious and put together—no captain wants a loose cannon aboard. If you find yourself on one frequently, do not speak too much of it. No owner wants to attract more attention.

But enjoy yourself. Take it all in. Truly, it is—among the teeming—the highest status experience one can have here.

And please note: the omission of those who rent boats was intentional. They are not to be considered when taking to the sea.

- Horace

Someone pointed out to me — or perhaps I read it — or maybe I even heard it myself — that music radio stations have been describing themselves to this day as playing tunes from “the 70s, 80s, 90s, and today.” Ostensibly, this today begins with the inauguration of President George W. Bush and proceeds until the moment of this writing in 2026.

Twenty-six years of Today.

Most can distinguish a song from the 70s with only a short listen; likewise with the 80s and 90s — one need not have lived them to know. Each era had a style and the lyrics of most songs tended to harp upon the same moments, the same anxieties, the same fashions of those periods. The distinctions will always be obvious between them. And yet, none of this appears to be so for the twenty-six years of Today.

To join a long line of hack writers and chattering class inanities before me: Fukuyama’s The End of History and the Last Man is all too prescient (or is it more fashionable to say he was wrong? I wouldn’t know — I haven’t read it).

This long today, this malaise, may be omnipresent in the larger, more national cultural discussions about music and literature et cetera et cetera, but here we do not lack for eras. We do not lack for eras because Charleston’s historical, cultural arc can be followed with the lamp of memory: architecture.

We need not dwell on the centuries preceding to prove its point. It does not need to note the Pink House and its nod to Bermuda and the pirate age; nor do we need to mention the Charleston Hotel once at 200 Meeting Street or Institute Hall just further down that both once embodied the antebellum; we need not mention neither the Riviera nor the Sottile as theaters that rose to prominence as film became the medium; it need not mention the Ashley River Bridge as a conduit of expansion for not only the automobile but the city of Charleston itself, the bridge that made annexation of the outlying counties more practical; and we need not note Dock Street Theater contains so many multitudes of the antebellum and New Deal eras. We are only speaking about the last thirty-five years or so — Après Hugo, if you will allow it.

Après Hugo has been described better by others, more specifically Jack Trotter in a 2014 essay collected in The Last Train To Dixie. Titled “‘In All the Ancient Circles:’ Tourism and the Decline of Charleston’s Elite Families,” Trotter traced the displacement of locals from their peninsula homes to the outer boroughs after Hugo’s destruction. This era is defined by others moving in when the homes became too unaffordable for older families South of Broad. Also in this time, there was the erection of Waterfront Park. What was once where the indigo shipped from Crokkat’s pier, where the fish stalls were, where once was overgrown, is now a place from which local and tourist alike can sit on a bench to gaze as the ships roll into the harbor or observe the dolphins on the hunt. Charleston Place, though built a few years before Hugo, is emblematic of this era. It brought in the luxury stores that now stretch King Street. Maybe even the James Island Connector best defines the era of Après Hugo, bringing the island to the peninsula. But of all these, it is the Ravenel Bridge, finished in July of 2005, that best embodies Après Hugo. Its massive size, its spider’s web design — it shows a city ready for expansion.

Après Hugo lasted from the moment the first winds blew on September 21, 1989 to 2012 when Travel + Leisurefirst named Charleston as its best destination for travel — and I suppose leisure. Thus began Le Déluge. Le Déluge is defined by the era of luxury tourism, of Experience as Commodity — think of the smarmy Anthony Bourdain coming to town here and describing the city and its food scene. This era is defined by the expansion of the food and beverage scene — Husk comes to mind most prominently. At that time, the service industry was expanding. All those grads coming out during the Great Recession couldn’t find jobs matching their studies, so bussing tables had to do. Le Déluge is every resident’s nuisance: the filled parking spots, the beach teeming with tourists, the restaurant booked for weeks in advance. It is seen in the Michelin restaurants now dotting the peninsula, their lines stretched around the block. I do not seek to place blame on Travel + Leisure: they are just a useful node for this polemic.

But travel defines the cultural zeitgeist of the early 2010s. Anyone in their 30s and 40s knows of someone who went on a trip here, or perhaps they took their own trip and never left. The Millennial moved to Destinations. The Millennial moved where he could write about it or tell his friends about how unique the place he moved to was. I, a former resident of Richmond, Virginia, am all too familiar with the Brooklyn-lite.

What building defines this age, Le Déluge? Where will we look one-hundred years from now and point and say, “there is the embodiment, there you can see — there is Le Déluge!” There are a few. The Hotel Bennett is a good place to start. Built in January of 2019, it is a luxury hotel accommodating a patisserie, restaurants, and a rooftop bar — a glamor according to Millennial tastes. It is a tasteful, well-decorated establishment. Overlooking Marion Square, it is appropriately placed to guide a traveler between the old and new. The valets are always square, and the drinks poured just right.

But the apogee of Le Déluge, where it achieves its apotheosis, is the newest luxury establishment: The Cooper. Opening only a month or so ago, it has achieved a level of notoriety. Laying on the Cooper River, on Concord Street, it has every quality of being the structure that defines the era.

First and foremost, it is exclusive. Too many complain of the “resortification” of the city — perhaps one should consider just because you are not invited does not mean it is a bad thing. The Cooper partitions the tourists by class and furthermore wrinkles the brow of the local who wants to enjoy a new watering hole but cannot because he can’t seem to find the entrance — a clever maneuver by the designers to keep those from the street on the street. Part of its exclusivity is the hefty price tag. But it is expensive because Charleston is desirable — the best-looking always have a list of suitors. What no one wants to sense, let alone hear, is “you are not invited.” The Cooper has the nerve to say it aloud. Our egalitarian ethos cannot tolerate this, sadly. It can also boast of hosting a fine-dining establishment. Having spent only an evening at the bar, I with my limited palette can attest to its refinement. And, finally, The Cooper has a unique style. Inside, it is as if you have boarded a yacht. The brass, the teak: it is as if you are on the latest private ship launched from Rotterdam. The aesthetic is not seen anywhere else in the city. Thus, instead of repeating a fashion from another era, The Cooper seeks to carve out its own.

You may not be invited to The Cooper, but you are invited to Ben Navarro’s other grand achievement of this era: American Gardens. Opening during the 2025 Christmas season, it is a humble venue for those weary from window shopping on King. Its effect has already been manifold: anyone who went during the height of Christmas can attest to this — its Venetian carousel was a wonder. Those who like to solve their problems of life with a walk can rest here under the shade, with the burble of the fountains guiding their thoughts. It affords the resident and tourist alike what is so exclusive: a wondrous garden, a pair of fountains, a place to rest and ponder what to do. It is of those gardens so tempting to spill into as one walks through the old portions of the city. It is, in my humble estimation, the greatest public asset on the peninsula today.

But Mr. Navarro is not done, and nor is History — perhaps Fukuyama was wrong! With his acquisition of Union Pier, we will likely see the greatest expansion of residential property in the city’s recent history. All bodes well with his two accomplishments in The Cooper and American Gardens.

Après Hugo and Le Déluge. It is fun to twist Louis XV’s foreboding into something positive. It is too obvious and easy to lament the carriage going by your home as you are drinking your eye-popper — privacy, please! But those on that carriage crave what all Men crave: Beauty. Charleston is illegal to build anywhere else right now. Again, it is illegal to build something great and lasting. The zoning laws in every jurisdiction forbid it. The suggestion that those who come here from elsewhere somehow want to shift the sensibilities to resemble their former residencies are overthinking: it wouldn’t make sense to uproot and move because you loathe a place and want to change it. Life is too short for such grand conspiracies. We underestimate the strength of what is so alluring. The city was built with bastions, and those bastions remain.

With The Cooper and American Gardens, we seem to have reached a peak of Le Déluge. What comes next is currently being charted — I think of the presentations of Project 3500 at the Dock Street Theater the other month, where 3500 affordable homes are being planned for here on the peninsula. Could this project inaugurate a new era? One can dream.

But when else were so many accolades bestowed, forgetting for the moment the intricate decision-making process likely involving a friend of a friend deciding who receives approbation? When else was the city so desired, so envied for its beauty? When else did everyone want to be here? The pews at Saint John the Baptist are filled fifteen minutes before any Sunday Mass, standing room only. Saint Philip’s has been restored to its former glory and is building its own classical school. We complain of lines at the bar but think of the line we shall encounter at the Gate.

For all its faults, Le Déluge is a Golden Age. It is a flood of pleasure, up to your neck in the finest food and booze. Savor it. Have another. Have too much. You are in it: today is The Golden Age.

I have written a book, and it is now published and ready for purchase. It can be found here and here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BLJT7C56

Below, you will find the preface in its entirety.

Any and all reviews are welcome.

Cheers.

TRE

Preface

This book was conceived during a time of mass hysteria and personal loss. It was the fall of 2021: my father had passed away in July, and the end of our collective sanitary tedium did not seem to be near.

At that point I had lived in Charleston, South Carolina for a year after having moved from Richmond, Virginia. I did not know anyone who could call themselves a local here. I was mostly alone, and what little company I shared could not be called interesting. I was unemployed, underemployed, barely scraping by. But I had an appetite, as one tends to acquire here. So, I wrote a book—this book—and published it in the fall of 2022. Not too many weeks later, after having personally bought a few copies for friends and family, I removed it from purchase.

It was not ready then—maybe it isn’t now. But after accruing a small readership, after making great and bright friends, and after having looked the book over on a whim since March 2026, I’ve decided it could be worthwhile to release it in this latest form.

To begin, Views from Vauxhall is not a short story collection—it is a unified whole. What makes these nine chapters coherent is the structure, that being a chiasmus, and the narrator. The book reverberates to and from the center.

This is a book about the particular. Nothing more. It takes place in Charleston, a town known for its particularity. There is scrutiny of the hollow verbiage of the advertisement cloaked as a travelogue; there is ridicule, perhaps too harsh, of the food writer and his desperate attempts to imbue a sense of sub specie aeternitatis into a beef carpaccio; there are thefts of classical forms, taking inspiration from the great well of our inheritance. However, it does not seek to loiter with the mummies. It hopes to make them new, to re-present them again in however poorly executed an anamnesis this may be.

Having gone on enough, I will end by explaining the title. Vauxhall was once a pleasure garden here in Charleston at the northeast corner of Broad and what is now Legare. Alexander Placide, a French acrobat, dancer, actor, tightrope walker, and theatre impresario, opened it in the summer of 1799. There he hosted suppers cold and hot, firework shows, and even an exotic animal display, including an elephant. In 1821, after his passing, his widow sold the plot to the Right Reverend Dr. John England, Bishop of Charleston. There, just across the street from where I live, stands Saint John the Baptist Cathedral. I suppose there is some poetry in that.

I want to thank my dear friend Patrick Erdmann for his innumerable revisions and advice. To the reader: forgive me the formatting, I know not what I do.

Again, the bold signifies a split in section.

This is the fourth chapter of Views from Vauxhall.

I do hope you enjoy. Cheers.

A Cook’s Tale

A slow drift, a steady advance, a saunter about the road or balance on uneven sidewalk over Collins his Creek sealed.

Branchsprawl, swaying ceiling, a green-gold shimmer. A humid drape over blocks.

Brewton, not the first but likely the oldest remaining on the perpetually shadowed way. Here Baptist Town: Mills-made sanctuary to hold dispute of ceremony by water, rival obelisk towering. Brace of pistols, bullets two, horrendous comedy ending for lovelorn doctor. Dubose—many keen to take his place. Conotocaurius—spent a night burning. Vegetable rot gone for Briggs—what creature they eat is mystery. Meander, north and sway, before house of murmuring confrontation—cast iron man forged his fate, Perilaus enemy of his former and present self. Peer up a latitude oddly named—can’t bring a cart through there, so much deliberation and countenance of the syllogism settled it. Farewell, Theodosia. Turn and take a narrower way. In this heat relief is needed. Sway shadow aplenty. Breeze-course to filter the piled abodes. And more so of all streets north of the old gate, those once walled, it opens up, crosses river rock, curves at the threshold. Day or night, dusk or dawn, never unsightly. Though less agreeable blots have grown in time they fail to overwhelm the materia of Church Street.

Roseate chamber, diadem prepotent, where those sea-tossed parishioners who fled with pneumatic presence under the sails of the insolent Coligny come gather. To the memory of Vallière and all those who fell on the feast day and all those who perished in the many decades following: you had it, but Paris is worth a re-presenting. Neufchâtel and Velangen piloted but Anglican usurped—quand nous sommes au pouvoir, nous la leur refusons. The culmination of a misguided exodus into a fouler land. All keels were steered by that imposing spire, you could not expect to enter here without following it. Serrurier to Smith. Fitting in many more ways than one. Ponder as you pass if we are all pre-destined to fall under this desert.

There was a wind sweeping down the neck, and there was a spark on the northwest corner of Church and Broad. Sound no alarm, make no haste. Sigh your relief, history does not repeat. It was only our cook.

He had walked a long way, from just beyond Line Street, to his favorite café. He had stopped to light a cigarette. It was his first consecutive day off work in months. He did not want to smoke before his meal, but the walk and the previous night’s events required it.

The back of his loose shirt was sticking. In the nearly two years he lived here, no matter how many mornings, afternoons, and evenings spent pacing about, he could never acquire a tolerance. The relentless damp a daily nuisance.

He reserved his place outside by setting his cigarette on the edge of a table. He could finish it while his food was prepared.

This café was a place he had come to enjoy of late. Once or twice a week he came before his shift since it was not far from where he worked. There was only outdoor seating, a few tables arranged in a small courtyard and three others spilling onto the sidewalk. Indoors there were shelves lined with canned goods, bags of sweets, and bottles of wine—the liquor license remained elusive, so one needed to carry out. There was a counter with croissants, quiches, and pastries stashed within on the other side of the glass. On top were heartier selections: a baguette with the owner’s choice of meat, cheese, and condiment was a fixture; there was a revolving option that could one day be a hot dog with elaborate fixings of Swiss, radish, and arugula; or, on another day, a tart. But always there, and his preference, was the croque monsier.

It was in his mind an ideal establishment. A limited selection, a small area to maintain, and all in a popular city. He could see himself opening one such place in thirty years. Maybe twenty. Maybe back in Charlotte, that banker town. Perhaps it would have finally reached the end of its expansion by then, he thought.

It was where he was born and raised, his parents having moved there for work. He wasn’t one for college and instead moved downtown with some friends. They all waited tables, lived in an apartment complex newly raised. He got along with the guys in the back of the house and, after some prompting and deciding this end was the better, he enrolled in culinary classes. For six years he worked at one place, three on the line, before deciding a change of scenery was needed. He went West to Asheville. By then he had dreams of running his own place and making a name—he believed this required moving. After three years in the Blue Ridge mountains, however, he encountered no breaks. Though he became more involved in the creation of menus, though he learned the intricacies of running a kitchen, though he earned a good reputation in the town, though his name was floated to proprietors and investors, none came knocking. This was how it worked, he told himself. He had exhausted all the small town could give him. There was no further he could go there.

Another place, one place a little bigger.

Charleston was just the city, he decided. There he could showcase his range, he could make his own impression within view of all those who mattered. More connections, better recommendations, more publicity, better opportunities. This would be his last city before New York.

His order had been the same for about a month. This streak was interrupted only for a goat cheese and spinach croissant—he thought it too soon for a lunch sandwich that day. The woman behind the counter exchanged pleasantries with him before grabbing a pre-made sandwich from behind the glass. He asked for it to-go—he didn’t like making her serve him on a plate, making extra dishes. A bottle of water completed his order. He paid and tipped well. She went into the back to heat up his food. He walked back out, sat down, and resumed smoking. She delivered the sandwich a few minutes later.

The bread was of good quality; the ham, good; the Swiss cheese was a fine complement. What was most enticing, what kept bringing him back, was the Béchamel sauce laced with truffles.

Of all the sauces mères, this bears the most fruit, so much so that one may be forgiven the mistake of thinking it is the only sauce known to man. What makes it such is the simplicity: butter, flour, and milk. Just make sure the butter is sufficient, lest you fail to cook out that most disagreeable of tastes. She has her sisters Brun, Blanche, Tomatée, and Hollandaise—each with their own fine qualities and variations. But Béchamel is plainer, less stunning, a canvas to be rendered into a rich and textured lather. It can be infused with bulbs or speckled with nutmeg; you could find hints of veal or throw in a cheese of your choice; put in a handful of morels, put it through a sieve, and put them in again. Or sprinkle in those timeless diamonds, lull your senses and then enflame—make no exception with tinned shadows, but we sad souls on this side of Creation must. These are her greatest finery: slip in the truffes when it’s ready. It is not too rich to tire the palate nor stomach. It is smooth and decided in taste. Not too thick, not too thin. It does not overwhelm the others but serves with all the rest. It is even enjoyable when eaten at a table on the sidewalk during a hot, humid day.

“Jonathan! How have you been?”

He was quite sure he had never seen this man standing at the gate of the courtyard with a smile ear to ear before. No name came to mind when his eyes met his nor after he took his whole appearance in. All he knew was that this man was certain of who he was.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not Jonathan.”

A short laugh, a look of being played, “really?”

“Yeah.”

The man stood in disbelief.

“I’m so sorry—you look a lot like someone I grew up with.”

“No worries.”

With his head hanging down, the gentleman proceeded inside to place his order. Our cook went back to eating his sandwich.

It never took more than a few bites to finish, but its contents filled him. The heavy ingredients, though small in portion, sufficed for his light daily diet.

Upon the last bite, our cook finished the only plans he had that day. He sat for a minute pondering his next move. He decided another cigarette would inspire him.

It was one of those rare moments, where the breeze subsides and no traffic passes. There was no conversation about, only light footsteps of a man in a suit walking to his office on Broad. The palmettos did not shake, did not scratch. It was quiet on that old street, perfectly still.

“Hey, I’m sorry again about that,” the gentleman said to our cook, “you look just like him, it’s funny,” he scanned him, “down even to the tattoos. Or at least the pattern, so to speak.”

“Don’t worry about it. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

He carried his boxed lunch off south to Broad. He turned at the corner.

The ash grew long. One arm was propped on the back of the chair, the other laid across the table. His legs were spread wide with his left stretched resting on the heel and the right foot flat.

A roach scurried aimlessly from a bush near him—a strange sight at that hour. He watched. It crawled slowly—then stopped—it sped up—then stopped.

Too close.

He lifted his foot like a piston before slowly, ever so gradually, lowering it with a hungover concentration over the top of the bug. He gave it a twist into the concrete.

He took one last drag before tossing it into the street—his whim the measure of all things. He leaned back in his chair, then muttered as he stared blankly across the scene, “what to do, what to do—what…to…do…”

Unfortunately, Substack will not allow (or perhaps I am simply incapable) formatting the chapter as I intend to do in the final. So, I took to emboldening words to signify a new section, a break.

I suppose my intent in publishing this is to generate interest. Cheers.

The King’s Two Bodies

On that point of sand, below where the sea wall begins, next to that bastion where war, where peace, where all matter pertaining to the outpost of that far isle was told to those attending, a flip-flop shod boy squirmed and pushed himself up onto the battery as his mother fussed.

She had told him not to go down there. She had told him she did not know if anyone was allowed to go down there. She had told him he could get in trouble if he went down there.

He got up and stood beside her. She took him by the shoulder. They continued their walk. Shortly after, she made him stop to read an historical marker with her. She told him it was important when he looked away. She told him to pay attention. She finished reading it and told him he needed to understand empathy.

And the times again antediluvian. Nuptial dew. Jessamine fragrant lays looping. Myrtles splay petals in triumph, lay thickly drifted of spring upon star tailored around the roots. Drooping over scored wall bauble of blooms browse below frond scuttle. Fig creeps on wall shielding gothic grottoes. Linear spirit of Greece reproving bulges of Victorian. Long-handled tufted shadows of palmetto brush, resplendent. Sheaf of honeysuckle rubs the dried-up features, makes burst the wellspring, makes floriate the eye, and turns vain. Severalty abounding, window view blocked by lantana and snapdragon. Plumbago untended reaches, asperged in the shower of girdling heat. Sunnywinking thridding the delicate ferns, bespattered in sunlick tantivy cycle rise Coriolan usurper!

Dr. Haskell took his seat for dinner at the Carolina Yacht Club. A staff member came up and asked if he needed a drink. He asked for tea.

He was early. The club was empty but for the three staff members preparing the buffet. Dr. Haskell surmised other members would arrive in fifteen minutes.

He sat and drank his tea. He watched the staff walk to and from the kitchen. He watched the bartender cleaning the glasses. Dr. Haskell adjusted his seat. He blew his nose in a napkin from his pocket.

An assembly of middle-aged men gathered in the back bar room. They had come in pairs or alone. They spoke of business. They spoke of club events. They spoke of recent news. Some of them had younger men with them as guests.

A gentleman Dr. Haskell recognized came and sat at his table with one such young man. He was hefty, this younger one, could hardly fit in the seat. He had a finely trimmed mustache and his hair slicked in a quaff. “Cetus hominum,” Dr. Haskell muttered as he approached.

“Dr. Haskell, good to see you out today. How have you been?” asked the gentleman he recognized.

Dr. Haskell nodded to show his good health.

“I want you to meet my guest,” the gentleman said.

Standing, he introduced the hefty younger fellow.

Seated, Dr. Haskell nodded his greetings.

The young man shifted. He leaned forward, and spoke in a deep, jolly baritone, “Dr. Haskell, what kind of doctor were you?”

But Dr. Haskell had diverted his attention to the opening of the buffet, looking just under and through the armpit of the hefty young man. He did not catch the whole question. He looked to the gentleman for an answer.

“He was a urologist,” the gentleman said to his guest while acknowledging Dr. Haskell.

Dr. Haskell nodded in agreement.

The gentleman continued, “it looks like the buffet is open. Let’s get us something to eat.”

Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans served just past noon.

Dr. Haskell shuffled to the gravy boat. He held his plate of fixings in his left hand. He attempted to lift the gravy boat with his right. He was unsteady. The plate began to slope downward. The meatloaf and green beans slid.

The hefty younger fellow grabbed Dr. Haskell’s plate before the food could fall. “I can hold this for you, sir,” he said, his bright eyes assuring him.

Dr. Haskell nodded his thanks.

He took the gravy boat and carefully poured it on his mashed potatoes. As he moved it over his meatloaf, it poured too generously for his liking. Dr. Haskell grunted.

He set the gravy boat back down. He lifted his hands to take his plate. “I can take it to your seat for you, sir,” the hefty younger fellow said.

Dr. Haskell nodded his thanks.

Soon there were no seats available at Dr. Haskell’s table. The hefty one and the gentleman sat across from him. Three others Dr. Haskell recognized took their seats. They gave brief pleasantries to the guest. Two seemed to know him from elsewhere. The other had the pleasure of meeting him for the first time. All were excited he was there.

Dr. Haskell always enjoyed the meatloaf at the Carolina Yacht Club. He unfurled his napkin and tucked it into his collar. He lifted his fork and carefully brushed off the excess gravy. He cut a corner and took it with relish.

The others conversed with the hefty young fellow. They took small bites as they listened to him.

“Yes sir, I’m hoping to transfer my membership to Orange Charlestowne.”

“A good lodge,” one gentleman said.

“Hmm,” said another.

“How was Middleton this season?”

“Got a buck. Eight-pointer. It was an incredible drive.”

“He did. He was one of three to get a deer this year. Nothing out there but coyotes.”

“We need to get out there and clean them out.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

“Back home we clean them out every summer before—”

“Where are you from again?” the one who had not met him before asked.

“Nashville, Tennessee—the capitol of the south.”

They laughed. Dr. Haskell scooped his mashed potatoes. The gravy was good that day. The meatloaf was missing something.

The one who had not met him continued, “what brought you here to Charleston?”

“Work,” he said, “I work in insurance.”

Some nodded. Some called it a sensible line of work. Dr. Haskell ate a green bean.

“Nashville, though I love it, is getting too crowded. Too many people from elsewhere. I’m glad to be here. It’s funny, I always knew I’d find my way to Charleston,” he leaned back, “wasn’t born here, just arrived late.”

They laughed and nodded in agreement. Dr. Haskell sipped his tea.

They continued their meal and conversation. Dr. Haskell, taking small bites, watched as they retrieved dessert—a banana pudding.

“Yes, he’ll be with me at Fort Sumter Camp in two weeks. If his schedule fits, he’ll also be at Palmetto Guard next week,” the gentleman host said to the one who had just met his guest.

They all mumbled their approval between bites of pudding.

“I’m still working on the family tree, but I know there are at least a few officers in there. I could join Colonial Wars soon, too,” the hefty young fellow submitted.

They all nodded their approval.

“Y’all met at the Safari Club, right?” the gentleman who had just met him asked, and continued, “Safari Club puts on great events. They raise money for good causes.”

“Yes, sir,” the hefty young fellow said, “after that party at Safari Club I got a craving to go back to Africa. I’m working on getting a trip out there soon,” he turned to Dr. Haskell, his eyes bright and knowing, “Dr. Haskell, I heard you’ve hunted in Africa quite a lot.”

Dr. Haskell was chewing his meatloaf. He nodded in agreement.

“He has,” the gentleman host said, “you should see the trophies on his walls. His house is full of ‘em. Kudu, buffalo, and,” he paused, “a man-eating lion.”

The table turned to Dr. Haskell. Still chewing, he nodded in agreement.

“Really?” the hefty young fellow said with affected incredulity, “that must be an incredible story.”

Dr. Haskell finished chewing. He scooped more mashed potato; he nodded and continued to eat.

“It is—” the gentleman host said, and the table turned to him, as he continued, “it is an incredible story. Dr. Haskell was in Namibia, on his nephew’s plantation. A lion had started the bad habit of laying right outside the workers’ cabins—would sit just outside the door, waiting for someone to step outside. The workers went up to him, to Dr. Haskell, and asked him what to do. So, Dr. Haskell and his nephew had them get in their cabin one night. He and his nephew got their rifles, got in their truck, and went down to a small hill overlooking. For hours, the lion didn’t appear. But then—” he set his spoon down, held his hands up, and with his right pointed to some close distance, “a roar, nearby—Dr. Haskell and his nephew were launched from their seats. The lion had taken a new route into the camp, one behind them. He turned and looked into the dark—” the gentleman host swiveled in his chair, “and saw the outline of his haunch sticking out from behind some scrub. He knew where its chest would be. He leveled his rifle—” his hands gripped, and, his finger on the trigger, he squeezed, “bang.”

None at the table took a bite. They waited for the conclusion.

The gentleman host looked at Dr. Haskell. Dr. Haskell nodded. The gentleman host continued, “so they waited for the sun to rise—they weren’t going to leave their truck without daylight. In the morning, they went to that bush where he shot—” he paused, “and there was no lion,” he paused, “but there was a blood trail. They got shotguns and sidearms to go along with their rifles—and followed the trail. The blood went into taller grass.”

The hefty young fellow took a bite of his pudding.

The gentleman host continued, “and there it was, hundreds of yards away, sprawled out dead in the tall grass. Now it’s in Dr. Haskell’s house.”

Wows and incredibles said. Dr. Haskell finished the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He left a few green beans on his plate.

“I’ve been to Namibia,” the hefty young fellow said, his banana pudding finished, “got a leopard there.”

The table turned to him. Dr. Haskell wiped his mouth off with his napkin. He arranged his fork and knife side-by-side and diagonal on his plate.

The hefty one continued, “it was late afternoon—we had only so much light left. The tracker had us on this leopard for an hour. We finally saw it sitting in the road. Gentlemen, I can tell you, it was not easy keeping my sights level—I was too excited. But I took a breath,” he lifted a rifle, “and squeezed the trigger,” his shoulder absorbed the recoil, “I couldn’t believe it didn’t go down right away—” he held his hands up in disbelief, then redirected them back to the bush, “it ran off into the tall grass. We followed the blood trail, but nothing turned up. Then it was dusk. We continued looking,” he placed his hands on the table, his back straight, “before long it was pitch black,” his pace slowed, “we were under a tree, resting, tossing around ideas of where it may have gone. We decided to look for it in the morning. We took account of where we were and went back to the camp, fell asleep, passed out,” he paused, he slowed further, “the next morning, we returned to the tree,” he looked around to see if he still had their attention, “and there, on the lowest branch, was the leopard—dead—yet poised to leap on anything that may come beneath. Who knows if it was still alive when we were there just a few hours ago?”

The table guffawed. They told him it was an incredible story. Dr. Haskell finished his tea.

Two gentlemen stood and shook hands and said good-bye. They gave short waves to Dr. Haskell and wished him well. Only the gentleman host, his guest, and the one who had not met the hefty young fellow before remained with Dr. Haskell.

“If you ever need someone to refurbish your trophies, Dr. Haskell, I got a guy who does great work,” the hefty young fellow said, “he’s the best in the business.”

Dr. Haskell was picking a green bean out of his teeth with his tongue. He nodded.

“I could take a look at them, too,” he added.

Dr. Haskell had dislodged the bean. He nodded as he chewed it.

The meal was finished, and most all that wanted to be said had been said. The gentleman host and his guest stood in unison. “I must get going,” the hefty young fellow said, “I have a call to get on back at my home office.”

The gentleman who had just met him asked, “whereabout is that?”

The hefty young fellow spoke quickly, “Summerville,” then, before anyone could ask further, he turned to Dr. Haskell, “nice to meet you, Dr. Haskell. I do hope to see you again soon, to hear your stories.”

“It was good to see you again, Dr. Haskell,” the gentleman host said.

One at a time, they shook his hand.

Not long after, the other gentleman left. He paid his respects, thanked the staff, and departed.

Dr. Haskell sat alone.

His tea was refilled. A serving of banana pudding was brought to him. The back bar to the Carolina Yacht Club was left to him.

Dr. Haskell pondered aloud, muttering to himself, “where have I heard that story?”

He could not quite recall, but he had heard of the leopard before—he had heard the story told better. He thought and thought, trying to catch a thread in his memory. Had he met him before? No, he would have acted differently, he would not have introduced himself—and what was his name, anyway?

A wounded leopard—in a tree—tracking it late at night—dead in the tree the next morning: Dr. Haskell could not place it.

He took a large scoop of banana pudding.

A book? A movie?

He sat. He pondered. He waved it away.

His plate was taken. Dr. Haskell thanked the staff. They asked if he’d like a coffee. He declined.

He leaned back. He moved his right hand into his left breast pocket of his blazer. He took out his phone.

He typed in leopard hunt story wounded tree. And yet, before pressing search, he stopped.

Dr. Haskell grinned. He closed the phone, and placed it back in his pocket.

The day before

Horn and drum. Snare roll beneath pipe drone to Alba an Àigh as the corps streams from the gates of Murray, Law, Watts, and Padgett-Thomas around or between the seats and stands of Summerall Field.

Wave upon gray wave bearing an Crasg nan Naomh Anndra on their chests marching, bearing toward appointed spots. Sabers perpendicular and denoting command. Sashes twisting and metallic clink of brass resonate of some other time. So many hundreds and not a sound upon the grass but the gentle and precise step of the corps.

All assembled, the great martial panoply, ordered arms and ready. Regimental executive officer gives command—all mustered or accounted for. Deliberate but not wholly affected strut, prowess of the rank, the archetype, makes its way to the regimental commander. Sabre salutes and is returned.

Order to present arms. First battalion and second and third and fourth, the singular sweep of rifles brought to the nose. The anthem plays—and can you see?—all can see here, arrayed before them, those who inhabit a now-strange but still-proud way—a citizen soldier, some ancient thing, immune to transaction and leverage, where word is bond and one’s worth is in a name, a vestige of backwoodsman and aristocrat alike—a free man, an ordered nature, an irascible and proud nation.

Howitzer fire, tremor of the stands.

The day

They share jokes, jokes any generation can relate with, that either happened on the mountain or in the serene city. Jokes of insolent encounters or liquored whimsy. The mutual conditions bred mutual behaviors: there’s no Rat or Knob story that can be called original—it’s all been done before.

Scalps peeled and awkwardly standing around tents as their cadre revel feet away. No sir can’t sir to any offer of a swig from an ungainly alum. Trial of months, a purgative season, cleansed all affectation and understanding of these trivial moments. All is sincere, all carries the weight of their honor and their name, their name taken from them and only called Rat.

This year and last year, this year and forty years before, mumbled and provoked, agitate and reminisce: brothers who hunt the dismal swamp, circle Suffolk County; West End luxury, lucky stone drawn at inception; myriad plenty, drawn to some notion of sentimentality—VMI calls her ranks.

Long drought, intermingled victories: VMI has been on the backfoot. NIL has corrupted the sport and turned it economical. No longer father and son, no longer regional distinction. No more option, no more hometown hero—this is a game determined by the all-conquering dollar.

All converge, saunter, meander, toward their seats. Straggle into the stadium. Watch the boys march down: many ponder how they keep aligned, wonder at the discipline. Suite filled with congressmen, ambassadors, state representatives, gubernatorial candidates: all come to see the show of their alma mater or their state’s proudest institution. None can be denied to be at the finest event of the year.

And there is a game to be played, an honor to be decided. And it’s kicked off to jubilee and excitement.

All watch each play, watch their sons or grandsons: for there is Mikey Rosa, linebacker, grandson of the former president General John Rosa, tackling the runner, one of his seven, while the grandfather watches from the stands, the former starting quarterback before suffering injury.

And there is Leo Boehling, whose father was there in the lot, preparing to watch his son follow him on the field. Running back, stout and fierce, he cracks a corner and dashes, twists, spins, running, roaring, on and onward, pumping and churning, outpacing them all, to seal the game, to bring the shako home, lunging lunging and running running, seventy yards onward going going before dragged down at the threshold.

A simple handoff—fails. Somebody blundered. Who is to say, none can say. Fumbled and bouncing, there at the pinnacle of the game—taken. The tide turns and the silence of the suite is broken. Onward and onward, the game is decided: the gods turn, shift the fate, turn it toward the home crowd.

Before long, it is out of reach. Amenable, easy on the eye. No more unease at wearing the ring in the wrong crowd: they’ve won, the shako will stay home.

Too much spun up. The crowd has gone too wild. Weekends for them all—turn out, take Dispensary for your own. Out and out, filtering, weaving their way to their austere commune to shed the garments, to take on the today, to permit themselves a moratorium of their duty.

And as for those less victorious, they shuffle to their bus. Duty jacket bound, a moment to leer at brilliance of the outside world spinning in their mind as they shuttle on up 95 to various interstates before 81 then to their mountain home. Some stay, those with seniority, lost to find something to do. But there is always a time here, always a bar worth seeing.

Filtering out, looking forward to the next—though never likely to match the heroics of the past. Always the same refrain: never to match. And yet whose to doubt Rosa and Boehling, the fathers and sons, those who watch and those who twiddle? Who’s to say it’s gone and lost?

It is one of those simple, mildly thought-provoking, yet pleasing works of Southern literature from the first half of the 20^th century. There are moments of great flourish; there are earnest attempts to understand our condition; there is an enduring humor. A harsher critic might say the characters are too schematic, that the book is really a gossip column—he might even say no one would wish it longer. Its strength is capturing the upper echelons of Charleston society—of which Pinckney herself was a member—clashing against the rising lower orders during the interwar period.

It follows the Redcliffe family, amiable aristocrats in a democratic age. There are Wick and Etta Redcliff, the husband and wife who seem to shuffle along while always trying to put on their best. Their eldest son Fen passed away the year before, leaving them with a rather neurotic and perpetually glum widowed childless daughter-in-law, Judith. Yet there is a youngest son, Tat—the family name is not lost if he still remains, but Tat renounces his status, his family’s traditions. He is the New Man: for instance, among his many disruptions to bring conversation to social disorder wrought by the rich, he says he'd never go to the aid of Great Britain—this is the summer of 1939, the book having been published in 1945. On the periphery of these few there is Lucian Redcliff, the younger half-brother of Wick. He never married, preferring to expend his spirit in wastes of shame along Archdale or in pursuing taken women. He lives with his mother, Aunt Quince. All in all, a typical Charleston family, praising their ancestors, still displaying as best they can the habits and vestments of their kin.

Then there are the Hessenwinkles. The patriarch, August, is a Lutheran and a second-generation immigrant. He is the son of a baker who has made his way out of the steaming kitchen and into the bourgeois world of Business. This character and his family are likely based on the Bullwinkles, a family that once owned 133 Queen Street—what is today our own Queen Street Grocery, catercorner to where I live. To emphasize further how small the world is, a retired professor of English and dear mentor of mine lived on the same hall as the Bullwinkles’ son in 1960 at USC. Pinckney’s story is not too far-fetched. August is married to Vinny, an Irish Catholic who talks solely of how to turn a profit. She is a crook who works for the local political machine—her primary duty as an operative is to call families to see who has passed away and to cast votes on behalf of dead men, a common practice back at the time. Vinny bore nine children for August, the eldest being the buxom Lorena. She is constantly sighted around the city cavorting with men. She even at one time had a furnished apartment provided for her by a successful businessman. Lorena brings trouble wherever she goes, as beauty tends to do.

The story takes place mainly over three days—Friday to Sunday. Early on Friday, the conflict emerges: Wick receives a telegram that his youngest son Tat has run off to Myrtle Beach and eloped with Lorena. The family is distraught—exogamy is not practiced by the refined folk of Charleston. What will these nuptials portend for the family’s future? Should they drive up there and put a stop to a ceremony that has already occurred? Can they talk them out of it? Lucian is called to the family house. The half-brothers deliberate. Etta confines herself to the boudoir. They discuss the ramifications. What to do? The live-in cook tells them it’s time for dinner, as it’s three o’clock, and they’d best eat. Around the table they sit. The bowls are served. The shrimp soup puts them at ease.

With their traditional meal complete, like Persians of old they can come to a decision. The marriage will stand, and they will host the Hessenwinkles to a dinner on Sunday—at three o’clock, per usual.

A long Saturday passes. A storm prevents the newlyweds from returning—the allusions to the Paschal Triduum are a bit on the nose, but do wait, there’s more. The rain prevents anyone from leaving, so they must contemplate within. The day does pass eventually, and the day of arrival comes.

What follows is the ordeal of civility. Here are the Redcliffs, Episcopalian all and all comfortable and at ease in the city their families made. Here are the Hessenwinkles, a mixture of German Lutheran and Irish Catholic and deeply suspicious of motive and paranoid over perceived slights of their status.

But the Redcliffs can loosen anyone up: juleps on the piazza, followed by whiskey in the parlor, then Madeira for a toast. Everyone is settling in well enough. There are only glimpses of hostility, but the occasion is too grand, any disagreement becomes fatuous.

But rifts emerge, nonetheless. Vinny is not only suspicious of her hosts but of the ancient god, Fate—before taking her seat, she demands a guest be dismissed from the Redcliff table so the number does not equal thirteen. The Redcliffs cordially oblige her superstition and dismiss two children of their cousin to a separate table. Repartee, friendly contretemps ensue between the members of the Redcliffs. This perplexes the Hessenwinkle matriarch: why would anyone say anything even slightly bad of their own family? Her eyes wander about the old dining room; they settle on various pieces passed down. For sake of small talk, she gauchely inquires on their value—money ever on her mind. Her question is deftly turned into a cloaked lecture on the family they’ve entered and what they hold most dear, no slight is given—a gentleman never insults someone by accident.

For all the misplaced questions, everything seems to be going well. However, there are secrets to be revealed, and they will not wait until the great unveiling. Vinny, being of significant stature, breaks a family heirloom dining chair. To reassert herself as someone fit to be at such a table, she throws her weight around by suggesting the newlyweds could rent the Redcliffe home in multiple units. The cook would either need to start paying for the roof over her head or face eviction. Etta tries to steer conversation away from money again, but Lorena, compelled by claret, delineates the entire house in an orderly fashion and how it could be apportioned to renters. Aunt Quince, quiet the whole dinner, wonders aloud how Lorena knows the house so well—and all falls apart.

Tempers ignite, no reason can contain the animosity Lorena has for her lowly station in life which she takes out on the Redcliffs’ daughter-in-law. It is revealed Fen, the dead eldest son, had a liaison with Lorena whilst married to Judith—and it produced a son: so rises Fen on the third day. Tat, cuckolded beyond the grave by his more beloved older brother, storms out. Judith collapses at the announcement of her deceased husband’s infidelity. Lorena, with all her pretensions to aristocracy, is revealed to be a mere interloper.

For brevity, the marriage is ended—annulled, as it was performed by a Catholic priest, and divorce was illegal in the state at the time. Tat flees the city. But the families gather one last time to decide the fate of the bastard Redcliffe boy.

The toddler lives in hiding with a cousin of Lorena’s across the Ashley. Judith pays a visit, curious to see the living remains of her husband. It turns out the boy looks more like his maternal grandfather, and exhibits disturbing behavior: he had tried to choke a hound puppy before Judith arrived at the rundown shack he was stashed in. He is bowlegged and malnourished. At the age of two he still cannot speak.

To correct the past—how Southern can one book be!—the Redcliffs persuade Lorena to let Judith adopt the boy. He will have a good life living near the Battery. He will get a good education, will be raised in that world Lorena so craved to be part of.

The papers are signed. Lorena storms out into the night. Judith is left with Red—Red is the boy’s name. Red sobs and kicks and protests. Judith, sweet Judith, so long-suffering Judith, caresses and pleads before screaming and demanding his silence. She recovers. She gives him a wooden giraffe to play with.

Red’s first instinct is to dismember it.

This is what has happened to our afternoon meal, formerly known as dinner, as it was previously the largest meal of the day. It has been bastardized, torn apart, ripped from its proper place. No longer do we have the time—dare I say the inclination?—to devote a few hours during the midafternoon to a sumptuous meal. Instead, we have been given lunch.

Lunch in general is a practice developed by our school system. You have your morning classes, you have your lunch, then you have your afternoon classes, and off to home you go. It has a command economy aspect, where all time is registered millesimal. Efficiency is the greatest priority. Get in and get out. Have your sandwich and have it in thirty minutes.

Charleston no longer starts slow then tapers off. It must always be abuzz.

But as ever, there are holdouts. There is a way to luxuriate in the afternoon here, the gentleman’s ambition can still be pursued—it is the greatest time to dine and drink. Il est l’heure de s’enivrer! Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps!

To do Charleston right, to live correctly here, one must devote time to the afternoon meal.

But how? One can be chronically underemployed like me and indulge as the sun is at its peak. But for those who must make their way through life with a career, how can they escape?

An incongruity appears: those with the most degrees, with the prestigious careers, suffer the most loss of hours while the service industry worker who cleans the table or takes the order or prepares the meal can take a few shots and acquire a positive demeanor as the day shines the most brightly. Why can’t the junior attorney have a buzz while writing the brief for the partner? Why can’t he casually slur a word before Your Honor? Who is living life to the greatest pleasure?—he who can take a drink before noon or he who must wait for the few hours at home to relieve himself of the tedium he created?

It is during the midafternoon to take your largest meal here. Would you rather have your steak au poivre in the evening and be forced to your bedroom?—or take it during the day with a bottle of Merlot before walking about South of Broad then finding yourself settling in with another drink? Of course, this example is extreme to make a point. But it must be said the professional class does not know how to dine in the afternoon anymore, sadly. Or, at least those not members of the Carolina Club, a topic for another time.

Slightly North of Broad (SNOB) has the menu and the atmosphere to recreate the early dinner. What they so horribly call the “lunch menu” should be tossed and replaced with what they serve in the evening. A happy hour should be instituted, from one to four o’clock. Twenty-five percent off a bottle of house wine, two dollars off mixed drinks, and half-priced beers. Scrap the à la Russe service and go strictly prix fixe for this meal. This will make service easier and timelier to send off the accountant back to his cubicle—but he’ll be full and his eyes misty.

If Charleston so wants to be known as a food destination, then return to those of us who live here our afternoon meal. It will separate us from the uniform pack. It will give Sietsema something to write about in WAPO. Upend the elementary school paradigm we still labor under. Our institutions must free us—it is their duty to offer leisure at a reasonable price.

In terms of food, gold rice was our Caesar—in Brooklyn, I have seen it served in arancini. But gold rice is no longer produced at such scale, and likely never will be. If the South—and the South is Charleston and Charleston is the South—ever deigns to take the stage again with mighty sway, it could do no wrong by starting with a serving of biscuits.

For biscuits are the Southern counter to the bagel, that most ridiculous of baked goods which seems to be constantly gaining ground in this city. The bagel is like a middle-aged man whose hair has grown thin, asking you for directions to the dullest place, then your opinion of the most tasteless restaurant, and then if you’re from here and if you like it—every chew is a burdensome question that is answered with strain. He is distasteful to the eye and causing great pain on your jaw at having to be so specific with him, constantly stressing right here and left there and two lights up and you can’t possibly miss it and yes, I live here and I have to go, please. You only want him gone after so many misunderstandings and repetitions.

But the biscuit, the biscuit is a golden-haired youth with a stronger pedigree than the bagel—it wasn’t boiled in some vat of city water, the biscuit was gently caressed by flame after being molded by a dear mother of us all. It is fit for the soldier, the sailor, the peasant, and the gentleman.

The bagel? The bagel is middle management. The bagel is the striving class, thinking he will become partner, thinking he will decide what is served in the breakroom. Plain, garlic, sesame, salmon, scallion cream cheese, and on and on the multiplicity and variety is its very undoing. Give us butter, generously lathered about and upon. A dairy pomade. Man and bovine, his truly sacred cow.

The biscuit is at once noble and common. The very name is older than our era—biscotatus: twice-baked. One does not return from a day in the blind and demand a bagel, he craves biscuits and gravy—for biscuits are the viaticum of Man properly aligned with his nature. They are, in a sense, an eternal return to youth when made properly. Biscuits are prepared for the family, for the generations gathered; bagels are for the man alone.

Meanwhile, bagels are a profanity. They are for the cubicle, for the man shuffling down the crowded street to his dead-end job, the dreary gloom of the morning commute.

If Charleston were to assert itself again upon the further regions, it could rely upon such establishments as Callie’s Hot Little Biscuit. To begin, this is not an endorsement nor a recommendation nor an ode to their quality. It is a recognition of basic fact: in order to stifle and subdue further advances of the bagel, it is necessary to have the ability to mass produce at a scale that does not detract too much from the taste. Callie’s finds itself in this auspicious position.

I wish them well.

To further elaborate upon this flattening age, Charleston, like so many cities, has taken up that most dreadful form of breakfast: the déjeuner-dînatoire—more commonly known as brunch. For a solid decade brunch reigned the Eastern Seaboard. Yet, it has subsided in popularity—one does not sense the same excitement when another restaurant announces a new brunch menu as there was in the past. Indeed, when an establishment does start serving brunch, as Husk and La Banque and Sorelle have done in the past year, it seems to be more an act of desperation or surrender. These are fine places on their own—their concepts are executed well, their fare is excellent, and the quality is consistent. Why add a meal entirely different?—and a meal so lacking in sophistication: eggs done so many ways and French toast and pancakes and waffles and bacon and sausage and mimosas and biscuits and a bevy of sandwiches along with plates with inclinations towards an entrée at supper—it is all too confused, I daresay even ridiculous.

I do not pretend to understand the economic intricacies, I am only confused at the desire to serve a meal so lacking in order. From the items on the plate to the time they are served there is no coherence to brunch. It upends any design to the day, for host and guest, not only by arriving at such an odd hour but by being itself so heavy and long to digest.

If brunch is so much an inconvenience as described, then it is a meal only taken by those of a certain socioeconomic background. In Charleston, it is for the Laptop Class, those who work remote along the pools of The Jasper or The Guild. It can only be enjoyed by those who have the weekends free, who can plan a week weeks in advance. It is often ordered extemporaneously after a long evening, but this further emphasizes who is walking in 82 Queen with a small entourage: it is for those who can spend on short notice.

Tourists demand brunch. It befits Charleston’s schedule as the stores along King Street open around 10:00, so breakfast cannot be taken too early by the traveler if he wants to shop after his morning meal. Otherwise, he will awkwardly loiter, peering into windows, pulling on door handles thinking a shop is open. Therefore, a late and filling meal is good for the visitor. He can walk it off on a tour or as he ambles South of Broad with no particular place in mind. Brunch will carry him through the day until their reservation in the evening.

And that is breakfast, it is the meal that sustains. It is the one meal of the three which has the future in mind: how will this make me feel; how soon will I get hungry again? This applies to the tourist, who strolls some miles in the day, and to any who work in an occupation demanding physical exertion—police officers, firemen, construction workers, et cetera. As for those with their very many degrees, they take a packaged granola bar or a yogurt. Eating too heavily will cloud their mind and cause fatigue at their less strenuous jobs.

Do you linger upon your morning meal? Do you pick at it?—or shovel it in? Do you sip your coffee or tea while watching the news? Your answer to these will reveal more than most would like to share with a stranger.

As of yet, the Implied Warranty of Habitability does not require a fridge nor cooking appliances. A property owner need only provide the essential services of heat, plumbing, and sanitation. However, any landlord with an average business acumen would install an oven and a stove and a fridge to their unit. And so, most everyone you encounter on your walk or drive has what can reasonably be called a kitchen—there is a place to store food and a device to cook with.

For most of history, this was not the case. One had to stop somewhere to get a bite. Now, with every man his own chef, breakfast has become the most concealed, the most private, of meals. We roll out of bed at whatever hour our station permits and decide either to start the day with our own creation or to sit and wait for someone else to fry our egg.

Having breakfast served is likely to invite the most judgment. Can you not boil an egg? Are scrambled eggs that difficult? Do you not have the money to purchase a toaster? Are you so lazy? Breakfast is the simplest meal to prepare, yes. Of course, you wake up in your home with your kitchen and its appliances and can turn them on and open the fridge and bring out the eggs and the bacon and simply lay them on the pan on the stove and turn on the heat. Truly, it is the simplest meal. But all these judgements should be dismissed, for those who judge others for dining out are the poor of spirit, the stinge in all things, none fit to swell a progress nor start a scene or two.

And in Charleston, meals are often taken at restaurants—for local and visitor alike. For breakfast, options are fewer than the larger dinner and supper. There are the three previously mentioned—Husk, La Banque, and Sorelle—but these are weekend brunches. Millers All Day has a location near Broad Street on King. There is nothing bad to say about the quality of the food nor the service. If there were to be one restaurant remembered a century from now for its morning meal, it will be Millers. The current generation will tell the future generation of a place that once served good fried chicken biscuits along with changing specials all while hosting their guests in a swirling dining room.

82 Queen always has a seat available at the bar on Sunday mornings. This seat is too low compared to the bar, however. You will sit in an uncomfortable position while eating decent fare at a decent price. The music will grate but it is better than most conversations I have overheard while dining here. To hear feminine excitement at one line of Eliot recited over a coffee spoon is enough to kill an appetite.

Then, of course, there is Poogan’s Porch. I will only say it is fine. It seems designed as if five middle-aged Midwesterners were asked what they imagine a Charleston breakfast would be like without ever having been.

To the poor dog who haunts it, I hope you find rest.

What follows is tragedy.

Imagine, if you will, a man neither short nor tall, neither handsome nor ill-featured, neither smart nor stupid. His shoulders are not broad nor are they hunched. His proportions are that of an anatomy textbook—neutral, oddly balanced, no wayward marks. When you look at him there is no pull to follow his lead, yet neither is there an innate sense to avoid him. Curiously there, he is. He radiates neither exuberance nor interest, neither meanness nor antipathy. When his brown or green eyes pass over you there is no kindness yet no judgement. You consider approaching him, asking how his day has been, where he is from, what is it all about—but you don’t. There is something off, and you can’t explain just what it is.

He is there at the popular bar on Upper King or along the waterfront of Shem Creek. He is there with his girlfriend of a number of years. She is also not unattractive and neither are her friends she is speaking with, friends she has made at work—nursing, education, or marketing colleagues. They stir their simple mixed drinks, sharing occasional glances with the man they’ve been dating, for two of his friends are there, dressed in a similar manner: t-shirts and shorts, no matter the season. These gentlemen seem to get along in a way that indicates they’ve known each other for years. They talk about the latest game over their cheap beer, about the highlights and replays now on the screen above the bar.

They speak in neutral accents, but there are moments you hear a bit of an inflection indicating they are from somewhere North of here. This is true for each and every one of them, man and woman. A reminiscence is shared about a time together back home in Rochester, New York, or in some town not New York City. They talk about college years spent at an alma mater not known anywhere but up there. They talk of Division-I athletics in sports no one watches, like volleyball or lacrosse.

Did you change gyms? How are you liking it? Have you been to the new tiki-themed bar? I heard it is fun. You won’t believe what happened at work…

Then he brings up recent events, our case study. Some guy jumped off the Ravenel Bridge, did you hear about it?You strain to listen over the thumping. He washed up on Folly Beach; he was a doctor, engaged to a girl; jumped off at the dead of night and washed up on Folly Beach.

But you know: it wasn’t Folly Beach where the doctor came to rest, but Shutes Folly—right in the center of the harbor. This man of no distinguishing qualities does not know the difference, or does not know what lies under the bridge he crossed to reach this bar from his suburban home in West Ashley or James Island. He doesn’t know how the tides work, how the currents run. It’s ridiculous to think any Man or chattel could be tossed from the Ravenel Bridge and float its way between the breakers and down against the Gulf Stream to Folly Beach.

But all of this is mystery to him.

The entire city and landscape he now resides in is unknown and never will be known. He enjoys the weather and the job opportunities only.

Will they say their condolences? Will one say a short prayer for the soul of this young doctor? No—one will shake their head, another will say damn, and our gentleman will only relish his moment of conveying the tragedy to his friends.

They order nachos served in a bucket. It is turned upside down, shoveled out onto a plate by the server as the group all watches and tells each other to watch watch watch how this bucket is served. They are five deep in cheap beer. They all eat the plate clean.

Checks are closed. They ask each other what they will do tomorrow, a Sunday—they do not go out on weekdays, this crowd. Two girls say they will go shopping; they ask the rest if they have heard of Second Sundays on King Street—none have. Our gentleman from Nowhere, New York takes his girlfriend around the waist—neither slender nor rotund—and tells the group they are going to Folly Beach for the day. None say they plan to attend the city’s social clubs, more popularly known as church.

He will go on through his life here not knowing how the city is ordered. He is too incurious. It is not for a lack of talent, but a lack of interest. Instead, he will place his bets illegally. He will draft his fantasy. He will go to work and have a successful career. He will be married to this girl—also not from here—and invite not a soul he met in Charleston—for he has met none. All his life is still somewhere outside Albany or whatever town it is but is not New York City. They will stop at two children. They will upgrade to a larger home in West Ashley or move to James Island to be closer to their favorite beach.

He is at your local brewery, he is at the themed bar. He is there with his crew. They will not bother you at all. They will not even know you are there.

If his persona is one of lacking curiosity or involvemen, then the opposite is one who craves to know too much and to be everywhere.

These are men typically from the surrounding region. They can hail from Georgia, North Carolina, or even, in some particular cases, a neighboring county.

Let’s say our case study grew up in Summerville. He comes from a middle to upper-middle class family that settled in the area only a generation ago. The father owns a business, something like construction, or perhaps he owns several franchises which produce a good income. The parents are divorced and have their three children—one eldest son and two daughters. The day comes when the Old Man croaks after a long day golfing at Kiawah. The son has been out of college for a little over ten years now and is placed at the head of the household and company. He’s been working as an apprentice of sorts for his dad, so it is not unwieldly. Furthermore, his mother remarried years ago and is settled. However, his two sisters have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle and do not want it infringed upon by any inconvenience like a death in the family.

But the son is ambitious. He tells his sisters to marry, to shape up, to find their own way. He is going to take the name and the sum of his father’s fortune to the Holy City where he will make his mark.

But his father made no connections in the city. There is no old friend the son can call upon to introduce him to the important figures having a drink behind the garden walls. After moving into a high-rise apartment along the river in Mount Pleasant, where does he begin?

Where men with no talent often go: to Politics.

So, he finds the local Republican club and joins them at happy hours.

He carries himself with great confidence, our case study. His ambitions lead him to believe he is taller than he is, more pleasing to the eye—he does know to dress well, and in fact does. It is easy for him to make friends at these events—everyone is, after all, so like-minded.

He moves through the gatherings often hosted in reserved second floor rooms of bars or at newer facilities along the Ashley and gathers three or four close acquaintances. They range in age from mid-twenties to late sixties. These older ones can give him nothing in social capital, he laments—they are odd cranks, too in deep with the television. But they do tell him of a monthly salon where debates are held in a mock fashion and that all the power brokers attend. They tell him if he wants to meet those who pull the strings then he needs to go next Thursday. Hesitant, our case study inquires about it with the younger acquaintances. They tell him they’ve been, that they always attend, and wouldn’t think of missing it.

He cannot afford to miss any opportunity to spread his name, to share his face with others, to let them hear him say his name aloud and give a firm handshake. So, naturally, he goes.

He is introduced to local activists, mostly school board types and strange men with delusions of unseating Democrats from their gerrymandered fiefdoms. It is a good mixture of the sociable and asocial. This is fine, he thinks. He tells himself he must work from the bottom up, that soon he won’t need to interact with these cable-addicts, that he must keep attending each salon and each happy hour and each speaking event. Get your name and face out there, he thinks.

But the months drag on. At this point, he is taking part in the salon, thinking it will help him ascend. He is approaching each and every official and flexing his checkbook, asking them just how he can help. When Young Republicans come and announce before the audience that they are in need of a quick cash infusion, he stands up and demands to know just how much they need.

$4,500.

All eyes turn. Will he fund their trip to the Pro-Life March in Washington DC? He is not even pro-life himself—he enjoys meeting younger women through our modern means of dating, and he does not plan on having kids soon, let alone marrying. There is silence, he is standing with his precisely measured suit, all waiting, collective breath held. Put me down for half! Applause! Applause all around!

It's time, his younger cohort of friends tell him, it’s time he runs for office. I think so too, he says, tracing a finger through the sand out on the beach near Fort Sumter—for they took his rented boat out there and invited all the women they knew. You should run for Republican Party Chairman of Charleston County. The guy who plans to run is from the North. It should be held by a local—it should be you!

And thus, it begins. They triangulate. They run an online campaign. They get the members of the salon to all agree it should be him, the guy who plays his part, the guy who attends everything and does everything the right way. We need one of our own!

Sadly, the campaign is short lived. He is squashed by the powers that be—the string-pullers that he has only seen in passing and not yet had the pleasure of introduction. Publicity of any kind is good, he says. This is reaffirmed by his young friends. Next year, they all say.

More meetings. More salons. More fundraisers. More speakers. He bides his time. He intrudes upon conversations and introduces himself. He brings his young girlfriend to every public event. He wants to demonstrate his appeal.

He and his cohort are at Hall’s Chophouse after a meeting with only the select members of this lower rung. They managed to squeeze into a table on the first floor, next to the bar—a cancelled reservation. Passing by is a gentleman in middle age. One of our case study’s younger acquaintances stands and shakes the hand of this figure. Someone important! Time to stand up! He exchanges pleasantries. The gentleman says he has heard of him (delightful!) and wants to talk to him more, but he must take to his weekly table at Charleston’s premier steakhouse. Call me. Our case study is handed a business card.

That night, in his furnished luxury apartment that faces the parking lot instead of the Cooper River, he lays believing he has found his way to the next ledge of the spiraling tower.

He joins a church—St. Phillip’s to be precise, because he is not yet welcome to join St. Michael’s. Services are attended intermittently—he prefers going to their happy hour events reserved for younger adults, for the years have not yet taken a toll on his appearance. He is inducted into lower clubs but is still meeting more important local figures than he was the year previous. He can almost do away with the salon, with the political crowd—so close yet so far.

Then one week he receives a message from the gentleman he met at Hall’s: come with me as my guest to the [club that cannot be named]. Our case study has never heard of this club. He inquires for more detail. It’s a gentleman’s club, in the true sense. You will meet many important people there.

He can hardly contain himself.

They are South of Broad, outside a lovely antebellum home. He is invited in. Upon entering he is greeted by the host, a man bearing a distinguished name, from one of those first arrivals. Sign your name in the guestbook, if you’d please. He does so, and it is the best signature he has ever scribbled. He can hear boisterous talk above—it must be close to fifty men up there. He goes up and up, where all the gentlemen are. He sees they are much older, though most middle aged. He can see familiar faces. He can overhear their conversations, their greetings. The names exchanged are historic.

He gets a drink made for him at the bar—yes, they even have service here. He turns and sees the gentleman who invited him is speaking with the host. Surely about me. He decides not to bother them, to let them come to him.

There are no seats, as all are taken by the senior members. He stands alone in the corner, not too far from a clique, to make himself not stand out too much.

Soon he is invited to meet some gentlemen by his host. Pleasure; pleasure; nice to meet you. They talk local events. They wonder how the election will go. They wonder where some other member is and if he will come this evening. Our case study listens. He sips his scotch. He does not want to impose.

The host and another drift off to talk to someone who entered. Soon it is only he and an old man. He decides to make small talk, to talk about how much Charleston has changed in his interlocutor’s life—but as he gets halfway through the question the old man interrupts, for he had heard none of what he said, being close to deaf, and not finding much interesting in this young man before him. The old man asks if he goes to St. Phillip’s, because he’s seen him in there before, once or twice.

I do, he says.

Ah, very good.

Our case study stands, waiting for the follow up.

But there is none.

I’m going to recharge my glass. Excuse me.

The club only runs a short while. Soon they all shuffle out. He shakes the hand of the host, who says it was a pleasure to meet him, and that he hopes he returns.

But there will be no return for him. It was only once, he found out, as the months passed without another invitation. No matter, he thinks, if I keep going to church, keep talking to the right people—I’ll get back there.

But until then, there is a town council election he must enter.

Sensing the tide turning against him, it is written Joseph Blake gathered his last crop of rice in the fall of 1860 and loaded for London along with all his personal possessions and housekeeper. Blake left all his holdings, the vast tract of some 25,000 acres in the Santee Delta—that great expanse of marsh and swamp, second largest watershed east lf the Mississippi, largest river delta on the Eastern Seaboard—to be tended by his near thousand enslaved. Yet another record says it was no Joseph Blake but an Arthur Middleton Blake. This Blake it is said would pass away in London the very next year. After his departure, it is recorded the plantation was used as a fortification and regimental headquarters of the Confederates where in 1862 shots were fired at Union steamers from it. One-hundred thousand bushels of rice would be put to the flame along with outlying buildings for the insolence. With most former slaves loaded onto Union steamers, there were few if any left to manage the abandoned Blake Plantation.

A herd of cattle was left behind, left behind to feed on the marsh sedge of Big Murphy Island. Three decades they lived out there. Likely they suffered, likely they suffered loss from raiding parties of freedmen, likely they suffered storms, all this toughening them and making their meat undesirable to a refined palate. Driven into ferity, these bulls and heifers took on a wary aspect.

It is writ Mr. Isaac E. Emerson, wealthy socialite and antacid creator, an active member of the Santee Gun Club, darted from the onward stampede of wild cattle on April 1, 1902 — a story conveyed by a Mr. B. Nason Hamlin to fellow Bostonian Henry H. Carter.

There were 15 heads of cattle munching the marsh on Big Murphy. A Mr. Dupree stepped forth voluntarily to start them. To see a man wading alone winding to find his footing in the newborn spring toward the repossessed generation chewing their time away, then dash all of them into one singular herd reaffirming their return to times before our own, headlong charging against what they dimly recognize by memory given through birth. Mr. E. D. Jordan, only there that April 1st on this hunt after having met some member of the Santee Club in Europe in the summer of 1900 whose name is not known but whose enthusiasm was convincing, put a 00 shot into the leading bull after Mr. Hamlin sent a round into the shoulder. The men needed four more volleys of buckshot to take down the bull. Now unto this day there remains the head of the Big Bull from Murphy Island at the Santee Club house, all renovated and splendid, serving as offices for DNR.

These men on the bull hunt were members of a generation of Northerners who reinvigorated through their untold wealth the feeble Santee Gun Club founded by Captain Hugh R. Garden, a native South Carolinian who’d returned from New York. Captain Garden, the Confederate veteran artilleryman, had acquired Blake’s Plantation in 1898 along with Ormand Hall and Little Murphy Island. The first three years though strenuous produced many great hunts and not a few distinguished guests.

One such guest was inducted as an honorary member, President Grover Cleveland. Either the frequency of his visits or through the prestige of his office, President Cleveland earned his own blind thus named after him in Black Point.

On one such trip, at dinner on his yacht Diana, an amusing incident occurred. Old John, the steward, made a specialty of broiled duck livers with an original sauce and their complement of fried hominy and celery salad. He had prepared the sixth or seventh platter of this delectable combination for the hungry huntsmen. The weather was extremely warm for that season of the year and Old John was weary from his frequent trips from the table to the galley and back. Suddenly a spark from President Cleveland’s cigar fell into the pocket of his hunting jacket where there were a few loose grains of powder; a flash of fire and a slight explosion ensued. The old steward, who was as stout as the president, fell back through the door, a platter of duck livers in his hand, and exclaimed, louder than the explosion, “G’eat Gawd! He done buss! I knowed it was boun’ to happen!”

President Cleveland enjoyed the incident as much as anybody and frequently told the story on himself. In a letter, he expressed his gratitude: “Please accept the thanks of an old man, seventy years of age, for all you have done to make his short stay at ‘Santee’ delightful and beautiful. I am convinced that you can not only manage a club, but can also manage its guests.”

Despite such presidential envoys, the Santee Gun Club was in a state of disrepair at the turn of the 20^th century. Only the arrival of E. D. Jordan of Boston in the summer of 1900 salvaged the legend that the Club would become.

Jordan and his companions went out on Cedar Island, led by chief guide of the Club, Mr. Charles Mills. Mills was deaf as a post, nary a sound could he hear. It is said he’d give hand signals on turkey shoots, hand signals all but lost to the hunters, and thus the turkey too. Yet he was an able shooter, having recorded over forty ducks with one barrel at Big Murphy. That day on Cedar Island, not a duck was seen. Next day, on Little Murphy, again yielded no game. Perhaps the silent world Mills dwelled in was at this time an advantage, as it gave him uninterrupted thoughts. Mills suggested to these men they take a look at Big Murphy, an island they could not hunt as rent had not been paid in two years by the Club.

At that time it was a holding of a Mr. Lucas of Charleston. A watchman named Pepper, a mad man, confronted them and told them to be gone. Through means unknown the deaf guide conveyed he only wanted to show the guests what was beyond the crest, for the shooting that morning had been unsuccessful, not a bird seen — all Charles wanted to do was let his guests see a bird. The mad man Pepper capitulated, but only under the stipulation no duck would be disturbed. All agreed.

Jordan crawled up and peeked and saw only a stirring mass of ducks of every kind atop the pond. Teeming, writhing with mallards and teal, innumerable thousands blotting out the pond. And there was deaf Charlie Mills, holding his oar—why he brought it on this expedition, none likely knew—perhaps with nerves he was spinning it, or perhaps the nerves brought on from that morning’s skunk and the previous day’s drought made his hands loose and his strength less, or perhaps in the silence he lived in he knew this was the best chance to convince some rich Northerners that they had to invest in what could become a comfortable living for Charlie Mills. And so it happened Charlie Mills dropped his oar on a log, as the party was watching the ducks placid atop the water. Upswirl they launch at the disturbance, beating into the air, numbers never seen by these veterans in any state, neither North Dakota nor North Carolina nor Texas.

Back rent was paid forthwith.

Soon thereafter, Jordan purchased Big Murphy and entered negotiations with Captain Garden to reorganize the club.

A new clubhouse was built. It is said the contractor was held at gunpoint by Captain Garden to renovate it, sensing a loss. Bedrooms were extended and paid for by members. Electricity was brought out along with a radio set in 1923. A shower was contributed by Mr. Jay Cooke.

More land was purchased — Mazyck Plantation in 1924, part of Cedar Island, Backwood Plantation. Some twenty-thousand acres and all the comforts of modern habitation were had there.

To go along with comfortable quarters, deer, snipe, quail, dove, woodcock and turkey could be sought on the property. During lay days from duck, members and guests could go on deer drives or march through the impoundments stirring snipe. An endless mélange of pursuit. Members had their favored guides with whom they shared a rapport. Good relations were necessary, as a guide scorned could ruin your trip. According to B. Brannan Reath, author of Santee Club: A Legend, a guide remained silent when a game warden counted the game bag of a guest who’d shot over his limit. “Of course,” the warden said, “your guide shot three of the ten ducks.” The guest was not stopped before he bungled in admitting he shot all ten of the big red-legged black ducks, perhaps too proud of his haul or unaware of the limit.

When game was brought in, or when shoots ended, dinners were prepared for most generations of members by Old Henry McCray. His Cooter soup — turtle soup — was a meal of great mystery, as he never revealed just how he made it. If game was not eaten right away, it was stored initially in a screened shed. If it had to be stored cold, they took it to the Georgetown ice plant. This was remedied later with the addition of cooling units.

All in all, a well-run operation, and due must be given to the superintendents. The first of them was Mr. Dupree. He was followed in 1905 by the second, Mr. L.A. Beckman. He’d be followed by Mr. R.O Mercer in 1940. It was the Superintendent’s duties to maintain the property, to make it profitable — Mr. Beckman for instance planted rice, mostly without success. Furthermore, they had to retrieve the guests from the North at the train station or airport. Alcohol was ordered ahead of time and placed in the only locked compartments anywhere on the property — the gun safes sat wide open. Though it was a service-member relationship, it was not uncommon for the Superintendents to develop tight bonds with the members. Christmas cards were sent annually, inquiries into health were made.

The names of duPont, Carnegie, and Rockefeller descendants adorned the members list. Sons and grandsons of the titans of industry, their progeny, bringing in brothers and newphews as members to help them escape the tick tick tick of the Stock Market. Down to the serene marshes they went, bank accounts stuffed with the swelling wealth of the soon-to-be hegemon of the world. The fraught 20th century could here be forgot, sidling along an impoundment with a guide their father or uncle once followed.

The club would donate the lands to the Nature Conservancy in 1975. After imposing strict easements, the Conservancy would give it to the state of South Carolina to be managed by the Wildlife Department. Twenty-five years later, the last hunt of the Santee Club would be had on the twentieth of January 1999. No more member hunts, only hunts among strangers.

There is a poem writ, by Joel Barlow, commemorating the time spent in the delta.

Hear the sudden splash of mallard

See them sail up wet and glisten

In the first bright shafts of sunrise

See them turn and seem to listen

To the urging note of duck call,

To a teal cry down the wind.

“Mark!”— again the barrels blazing

“Mark!”— again their numbers thinned,

Mallards, four, upon the water.

Not above the blinds and free,

Not again to woods and Blackpoint

Past the flooding brown Santee.

Forget these mornings in the marshes?

None of us will likely find

Happier moments in a lifetime —

A hunter leaves his heart behind!

Joel Barlow was elected to the club in 1950. It’s not known when he wrote this verse on telegram paper.

A salvaging, a restoration, the Santee Gun Club was. Like the bull when he strode the marsh the land once was curated and turned artifice. Countless tons of mud and tree scoured to surpass Pharoah’s great monuments in labor exerted, and as his obelisks were found the centuries later buried the Santee’s impoundments were likewise overgrown. The few generations of wild bull made on Big Murphy had their reign, their moment in the waste land. But man is ever enterprising and ever bold to reclaim.

So run Elliott did, run on horseback, to drive on deer and drive away any thought or even suggestion he could end by way of venery and forest sprint. Yet whelmed again he was, not by any word spoken but by the world alone, by the simplicity with which it swallows up its own self and the men who travail upon it. That very mound he squat on, that heap being the cause the place was called Fort, the original lords all scattered and gone, those that displaced them too and their progeny likely to go with them all into oblivion, not carried on into futurity but left. Only belch of shot stirred him from this dread and back to the hunt.

This was hundred-seventy some years ago, all written in his book Carolina Sports.

Yet we’re not on any solid shore of the Ashepoo nor standing upon any ancient dwelling withered away by the prevailing winds but skirting across the top of it, between the mud and marsh, closer to the mouth feeding into Saint Helena Sound. Our horsepower is 9.9 and what carries us into this dark does not bleed nor beat nor even fit our endeavor—a fishing skiff white and blue employed for duck hunting. We’ve had success and failure, our encounters with DNR, incredulous looks from those so professionally aligned on port and starboard of what resemble patrol boats suited for the Mekong tasseled and be-laureled in the strands wrapped in sheaves to conceal them. Flimsy nets and zip-ties shield us enough—again, we’ve gotten a few in our three years using this method.

A bit reckless to strain and risk life through hypothermic airs in a vessel not designed for our intent, to go headlong into waters unfamiliar for a chance on a boat flat and bereft of rail while carrying only an average spot light to illumine the pitch that obscures this coiled way lurking with crab pot and oyster basket and creeping shore of reef and mire before one or the other or all snatch prop or boat entire and send us flung to icy doom with head battered against bow and mind spun out even after enlightening cold splash and bath before slipping away floating while cordgrass kindly reaching out to hold us but losing us to the strength of the tide inexorably pulling and pulling us out and out spinning cartwheels twirling into the Sound and into Ocean. Eyes wide luminescent paling, frozen with last sights, and behind them the mind no longer panicking but thinking how great it would have been to see the teal flare off gathering the warm flaming red rising of the sun on their bellies and to see the looping marsh hawk darting and to watch swallows innumerable twittering as if pulled along spindly threads these frail things while green heron swerves in the creek so nervy and for it rarely seen if not for that snag that sent us.

Scooped up, we’d be, stiff and wreaking, hoisted up by hook and hand. Easy, easy, don’t mal-hand Palinurus kinand water drip pouring before corpse-thump on fiberglass. Crosses shifting and whispers to self, drag grunting our former flesh now warming up over inboard engine, rescued for resurrection, not left to drift off but salvaged Lazarus raised before bone picked. Swaddled in tarpaulin, flicking up as the pace quickens and us peeking out—put on foot on the corner to keep you from seeing. Bring us in, let everyone weep and wonder what possessed us to go out in such cold and such dark and with no understanding of what lay before us and so ill-equipped to the undertaking. The hell were they doing and surmise a youthful ignorance of how life is sweet and must be cherished and not tossed on vain ambitions like a merganser to stuff and hang on your wall. Their wives now widows, their families without a son—bury or burn ‘em according to their faith.

Young now and forever, that’s what duck hunting on the cheap and perilous brings. Put it in my obit, toss a float to mark where I washed up eternally. Build a mound, some mud land hold my bones, where another man can sit and watch it all pass him by and come to convince himself he is old and withering and out of time before he then sets off, sets off and throws away the years ahead and behind and takes part in the eternal chase and stalk, watching all creation stir and wake, and the blazing sun rise in glory.

Gout-riddled, apnea-disturbed—mutato nomine de te fabula narrator! Six foot one and a still appealing two-hundred fifteen: I maintain a pleasing appearance, but the flesh and soul are tormented by insatiable tastes.

I am retiring from this life, no more a gourmet—I eat and drink now to sustain a pulse. You will likely find most of this obscene, even profane; you may declare I have been an irredeemable gourmand, that no soul such as mine can be saved, that the piercing, grinding blade betwixt my toe’s joints is just desserts for a dissolute life. But I must save it, and perhaps my tale can save yours too. My pain, your felix culpa.

Know this, we are not here describing some trite nostalgie de la boue, no drag through the merde. Do not find any allusive or anagogical method. Didactic does not describe what follows. Let us elevate to a heightened form.

Charleston is a fine town. It resides in the dream of every Condé Nast subscriber; they hope to spend a weekend or two here, perhaps even to purchase property somewhere in town where they can walk to their every want and need. Always atop every list, Charleston is. It is the food and the drink that bring them all here in surplus quantity. Our pols and chattering class all revolve around delivering experience to the low, the bourgeois, the high. It is democratic here, all represented, though concerns always emerge of whether it is attainable for each and every. The soft despotism pervades.

Forgive me, I will avoid all attempts to fill-ossifize. This is panorama, or more likely a physiologie from Balzac’s Paris. The critics will scorn this work.

Where was I?

It is a city that starts slow and tapers off. Breakfast is taken late. Drinks are had upon the turn of noon. Dinner is taken at a stroll. Supper is a feast. Revelry sophisticate and debauched is had each day of the week into the early morning. And thus, the cycle goes on.

Charleston fills the appetite only, with little to please the mind—decadence is the word you are thinking of. Is it the horizon we occupy, or an aspect of this thin sliver we stand upon? I am not an historian, and I will not offer you any firm answers. Though Charleston once boasted luminaries of thought, as Hugh Swinton Legaré and William Gilmore Simms and Basil Gildersleeve can prove, we are now relegated to a museum with a wide spread and plenty to drink. Catch a buzz and squat in front of Rainbow Row—come to this sacred pilgrimage site of bachelorette parties, where mysterious rites are performed to bless a marriage with fruit. Or so it will appear in the record written a thousand years from now.

I am too glib. But nothing is taken too serious here, aside from reputation. So small is Charleston one can ruin his name forever if he says something untoward to the wrong person. A small circle can bring you in, lift you from your dull life, and turn you into a prince. That same circle can then expel you, exiled to Summerville or Moncks Corner. Don’t expect an invitation to the Carolina Club after your behavior here this evening, monsieur!

Let us, to continue this introduction, examine a synchronicity I enjoy.

In Carolana, temperance and chastity were and are as wanting as in the palaces of Charles II. The Merry Monarch’s ways were seemingly transferred to the planter class and their many generations: debauched and wanton young men, dueling in the narrow alleys, livers giving way in the bloom of youth. A visitor today may walk along Tradd Street and adore the window boxes of snapdragon and lantanas unaware that the building may have hosted brawling sailors from lands far flung. During her Golden Age from the 1730’s to the 1820’s, the Holy City was anything but sacred.

With the languor brought on by the stultifying airs and the enormous wealth affording so much time for leisure, a Frenchman named Alexander Placide opened a pleasure garden at the northeast corner of Broad and what is today Legare Street in 1799. Evening concerts were held here among, I imagine—and this is all we can do today, the record being mostly lost—the many varieties of flora imported from Japan and China: crepe myrtles and their white or pink petals; jasmine, gardenia, gingko; or those plants found here on this peninsula naturally, magnolias and Carolina jessamine and the adored live oaks. To displace any and all from the most foreign and strange was the elephant held here. Mr. Placide named his garden Vaux Hall—variously written as Vauxhall or Vauxhall Gardens—bearing the name of a similar and more noted establishment in England.

An amphitheater was added; baths were installed after. Benches and tables were assembled, and food was served—one could order ice cream once they finished warm plates. At its peak, fireworks illumined the night and brought closure to concerts and dances. Mr. Placide would pass away in 1812, but Vaux Hall carried on with his widow taking the reins.

I imagine it as Charleston was and largely remains: jovial with an appearance of sophistication, incredible excess, and sensuous. This garden would be fragrant from all the flowers and aromatic dishes spinning with rich sauces. Animals exotic or familiar lumbering or trotting and making their different calls—an elephant trumpet or a horse’s whinny. Cellos and violins playing elaborate pieces with dance partners gliding across the floor. Man’s unmatched ability to create captured here between manicured rows of pink, red, and yellow blossoms below aerial bursts.

Much like the old wall of dirt and palmetto logs with its bastions named for the Lords Proprietors would be pushed into and fill the moat; much like the Half Moon battery would be scrapped and over it the Exchange was raised to handle the money fast coming after so many years of conflict against French, Native, and Spaniard: Vaux Hall would also give way. In 1821, the Right Reverend John England, the first Bishop of Carolina, would purchase the land with the intention of constructing a cathedral—an influx of Irish immigrants created demand. But from the start they would have to settle with a wooden chapel.

A cathedral began to rise shortly after. Construction started on Saint John the Baptist and Saint Finbar in 1821 and was completed during the episcopate of the Right Reverend Ignatius Reynolds in 1854. It was designed by Patrick Charles Keely, architect of innumerable churches and their adjoining structures in the United States. It was built with Connecticut brownstone in the Gothic style with a 200-foot spire. It was undoubtedly one of the finer churches in Charleston, a city known for having an array of choices.

On December 11, 1861, a fire broke out near the Cooper River. This flame would rise to a storm and ride the wind west to the Ashley, consuming a third of the city. Among its victims was the cathedral, so newly built. The steeple collapsed, the sanctuary scorched, the Seminary Library of 17,000 volumes lost. What remained were the gates and fence which still stand. The final insult came in 1886 when the great earthquake brought the remains down into a heap.

The task of creating what we see today, the Gothic brownstone star-dimpled with golden cross atop copper spire, did not begin until 1890. The debris was removed and the land made ready. In 1907, Saint John the Baptist—dropping Saint Finbar—was nearly finished. The architect?—Keely again. His design attempted to replicate brick by brick the old cathedral. I said nearly finished because the cathedral did not have the spire we see today. They had to settle instead with a square tower due to financial shortcomings.

The spire was assembled and golden Celtic Cross placed on March 8, 2010. This needed the approval of Charleston’s fastidious Board of Architectural Review. It is said they demanded original prints describing a steeple and spire, that word of mouth and old drawings from artists would not do. Deep within the surviving records, a blueprint was revealed again giving them the license to ascend higher in Charleston’s steepled skyline.

From untended land beyond the walls of Charles Town, to a garden filled with earthly delight, to a cathedral destroyed by fire and earthquake. The vaulted ceiling today with the azure sky and rising marble columns lifting and holding this heaven above you as you sit on Flemish oak listening to the pipes of the organ bellow and you wonder what you will do that day in this city, the Holy City, but still filled with all those pleasures that if you are not careful will exceed—da mihi castitatem et continentam, sed noli modo.

Placide’s old garden did not shutter, it just spread from its old spot.

Here, with Charleston’s grandest cathedral, we find the entire life of Man. The struggle for virtue, the desire to build heaven on earth—it’s all here, right there, all around you. The Old World lives!

Let us go forth, let us narrow our vision, let us focus on the manners and customs of those who live here in this exhausted age—we all know what they consume. Let us eat, let us drink, for it is the hour, il est l’heure de s’enivrer! Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse!

I am feeling myself again. Set it down here, the toe is fine now, and I need the walk.

Briffault!—you jester, reveal yourself!

Trimalchio!—speak!

No caravel and cannon dislodged the humble Malay from 210 Rutledge Avenue. No paynim expansion. It is you, you are why the only Malaysian restaurant in Charleston closed. You refused to expand your palette. You neglected to appreciate the Michelin dispensation. You chose not to order from a menu drawn from the confluence of India, Thailand, China, and Britain.

Provincial, aren’t you? Washington, D.C. now boasts the only location of this restaurant, one inspired by Chef James Wozniuk’s sixteen-hour layover in Kuala Lumpur. Columbia Heights is how far we must travel for delicacy. You didn’t want mee goreng or char kuey teow? Listen to yourself stumble over the pronunciations! Don’t you feel ridiculous?

Oh, you don’t know what these venerable dishes are composed of, let alone know how to string the syllables together? Hilarious! Stick with your un-lush staples, hang your jowls over your bowl of grits—eat your rice and revere your ancestors, simpleton!

We astride the world will continue to enjoy the crispy, crunchy, and crumbly textures of our spicy Hakka noodles, with curled filets and brittle sardines—the pure saltiness that only this small seafood can provide.

But really, was the Bib Gourmand accolade not enough? Now we boast of no establishment with a Bib Gourmand! Terminal backwater! Dante bemoaned Florence, now I too lament the fall from the stars of my once-great city!

Tastes too bold for you? Is that it? The chef went out of his way this summer when guests were few and far between to please your adolescent tongue—yet you persist to throw your food from your stool! The chef, he’s disappointed in you!

Don’t expect our city to be atop all the travel magazines much longer; you must expect our reputation as the best place to take leisure to decline precipitously. All because you couldn’t cherish the only Malaysian restaurant in Charleston.

You really think any other creative and cosmopolitan chef will come here after witnessing how we treated the only Malaysian restaurant? Think again! We will be setback a hundred years, into the ages before Mayor Joe Riley’s enlightened reign.

And thus, we will suffer—without our only Malaysian restaurant in Charleston. The consequences of this event will redound through our lifetimes. The second and third order effects, manifold.

We must now reacclimate to a city bereft of flavor. Our terroir, our flora and fauna, none will ever again know the smooth hand guided by the supple mind, none know the tender flame—none will know true artistry.

So much fume of horse, that smell that lingers of mane and tail; yap of dog, odor of days spent in kennel and outdoors—rife stench of the unwashed. Natural becomings. Scrape of hoof, scratch of claw. Small talk. Yip, snap, and clatter. Grey negative gives way to the light, night weft recedes. The dark crawls back in these shadowy parts as we gather round to receive orders of what is and is not to be taken in those woods behind. Stretching on the thousands of acres all about—no hum but silence; no call; all quiet, that trepidation upon walking to an altar.

Ancient names are announced and guests are introduced. Some dozen odd are to be placed about on this dead rice plantation, to be laid up slight and unseen, to be ready for what emerges.

Old and venerable raised into beds, guns and stools and packs laid within. Each departure timed not to interfere with assembly. Our last truck goes on, on into forest swamp.

Second growth pines rise high, thin obstructions to give clear view of the young palmettos, no higher than an ankle or knee though with ferns wide and sharp in appearance, shrouding not twenty yards of your vision. There’s no telling what is beyond, just within.

Younger old help old aside out the road placed there before due to condition—can’t walk in—and chewing on blasted end of cigar. As some keen lieutenant he will watch the fern occlusion, catching what is missed and makes it to the road.

There is the canal, holding only an inch of water. We disembark, gather material. Here on this levee we walk in. Corkscrew live oaks reel over the shallow pools where frogs descend to, rising from first cold night, sluggish and wary of the men who march. Kingfisher trill through and over the still green vault. Clank of steel, rustle of shells. Each shooter placed with well wishes, to watch there, not to turn here, to mind his neighbor, to remember the pattern of horn call. Under brush of sapling, over root twist, levee now overgrown with fronds further in.

It gradually flattens out, comes to meet the low swamp. Next to a cypress tree, behind thin sprigs, sylvan masquerade, we prop our stools to wait.

And in the distance, to the clearing on our left, the drive commences with blows of horn, distant blasts careening, calling an end to all the quiet still, with yowl and bark and halloo and cry of man and woman and dog and blast and peel respond within the wood eruption and crow flies and calls indignant and woodpecker shifts about tree not to be seen, to watch from above the sport below. Rally and cry, howl and bellow, again the drive goes as so many before.

Onward called and guided, war whoops in the thick, here then there, moving. Sitting by and by listening to squirrel scamper. Over above the myriad fly and further dapple the strewn floor.

And away from the hounds and horses a discharge, another—empty barrels. The whole of it lifts and the dwellers flee, there is great pandemonium between us and the angels. Turnabout and towards, shift your gaze into a clearing. Untouched he trods in, slowing, slowing down—as if aware his doom is imminent, that this tendril trap was set to his ruin and he wasn’t mindful of it until the shot missed him. Our tactic familiar to him, so often eluded, his panic his demise—he has run the wrong way, further into the rows defilade. And so he walks, tired of the rut, tired of this swamp, knowing there’s nowhere left to go but through.

He is lying down, his breaths drain, blows out warm his breaths. Horn is blown and horn is blown from horseback. Dog skitters in underbrush, yips, comes to see the prize.

Not thirty minutes passed. Not even two after sitting.

The Classical Origins of Southern Literature

By Professor James Everett Kibler Jr.

Hardcover 392 pp.

$45.05

(Abbeville Institute Press 2^nd New and Enlarged edition June 5, 2023)

It seems through either constant effort or limited curiosity our custodians of culture view the Southern variety to be only a gastronomic phenomenon. This is blared out through every medium, but most especially print. With cloying prose, the restaurant scribbler seeks to impart an eternal aspect about his evening foray to the latest chic take on this region’s bounty. The pastry chef, he whispers to you over the crumbs and smears remaining on his plate, does indeed glaze that latest treat with fear and trembling as an artist who deals with oil and canvas must brush. He insists that fried bit there redounds to the ancient muse and is one of the purest expressions of our travailing condition. Of course, it’s more than a meal, he perorates: your wreckfish resplendent in beurre blanc is but part of a craft an anthropologist can use to trace the values and beliefs of a people through.

Some of this is true in a sense; however, the culinary is a lower form of the arts, one not mentioned with architecture and verse by aesthetes nor thinkers of centuries past. Perhaps food is only spoken of as cultural artifacts because it is an agreeable form, one all can partake in equally. Easily accessible, the culinary is simple to judge: this tastes good, this is too salty, this too bland. Or, perhaps more controversially, food is cited because it is of the kind that can be bought, purchased, as our world of culture has turned into one of personal and group identities to be prepackaged and delivered to you for free in two days right to your doorstep.

I admit to portraying our humble correspondent crudely. I am aware there are multitudes to the genre—but I cannot help myself. Yet I contend if our Southern food critic was more aware of his literary forebears, he may change his tune when writing in so many overwrought ways how a new chef has changed the dining scene and, in some small way, our idea of the Southern itself.

Horace could serve him well, and his satire of Nasidienus’ dinner party. There the guests are subjected to a tedious description of each course brought forth by the servants of the host. Farm to table, nothing is omitted—the sea urchins are best unwashed before cooked and the white goose liver was fattened with figs. The guests grow tired of his flowery language, of his abrasive showboating when he claims again and again to be the first to fix a dish a certain way. This is something we find naturally off-putting: food is to be a complement to a good time, an experience merely, an ephemeral sensation. Eventually, the tent they eat under collapses from the excess, causing the party to disperse early, much to the joy of those attending.

But our critic likely hasn’t been raised in the Classics, he likely doesn’t understand the Southern tradition of letters can be traced with an unbroken line to the fields tended by the Mantuan or his Greek pastoral counterpart. If he were, he’d likely find his musings over a pesto or a new fusion joint to be less than edifying—and maybe give up the trade entire.

Professor James Kibler Jr. has done an enormous service to the Southern man, to the South, and to the nation as a whole with his book The Classical Origins of Southern Literature. This great labor is thick with all the figures known and little known who once walked our streets, trekked our marshes, and pondered over our gardens. Along with Kibler’s analysis we find the musings, the indignation, the great bursts of force from the South’s great literary figures all within this great sweep of history and thought.

Thousands of years washing ashore on new fertile land, subtropical and verdant and teeming to the brim with game: that is our genesis. Beginnings are like gods we must come to revere, for they have a power to save us. Our proprietors drawing out not a land of merchants but of landed men, men rooted to a spot from which could grow a new world inflected with the old. Kibler brings these fragments together in an orderly fashion, one academic yet accessible for the layman.

There is the mother of us all in Eliza Lucas Pinckney, and our father William Gilmore Simms. Hugh Swinton Legare is given his due as the brilliant mind he was, and Herbert Ravenel Sass is bestowed with laurels. This is a Charleston affair, Southern literature.

Far from the popular image of the day, we find here a people worthy not only to know but to venerate. In fact, and as Kibler demonstrates, it is right and just and even demanded by nature to keep them—that is the great conclusion drawn from this work. Without a memory, without a past known and expressed and seen again through a re-presenting in our life—by some anamnesis—we become rootless, wandering, with no fixed position from which to measure our days.

The Southern culture—and, really, any culture as properly understood—is not one to be purchased. It is composed of timeless verities found in ancient wisdom, of mores, as Kibler explains, which “include manners, customs, beliefs, ceremonies, assumptions, habits, folkways, behavior, and much more still—the sum total of a way of thinking and living…”. The most prominent of these in the South being pietas, or familial piety as seen in Aeneas carrying his father out of the wreck of Troy.

Kibler’s work serves not only as a study but as a refutation of today. The boundless consumerism, the endless haste—none wise and none sated. But of personal interest, it is a re-enchantment of the world. The many writers he covers were men and women tied to their land, to their family, and to the great cousinage that was the South. No longer can you sit in a blind on the Santee watching dawn spread in fiery rising and not think of Rutledge come down from Hampton to behold that very same.

Kibler has reinstated the past. He has taken the twine frayed from so much malignancy and tied it to our dingy from which we sail on. Decades to a century of colonization and imperialism, whether it be from steel or ink or rhetoric, has seemingly left not one brick upon another. But there are few, like Professor Kibler, picking up the charred remains and brushing them off before setting them back aright.

Kibler will not let the South go the way of a mystery. It will not be lost to time nor through the pull of hostile ideology. For Southern literature is but the emanations of the natural world, of human nature, of all the grandeur and glory that lies before us.