This is an edition of the newsletter Pulling Weeds With Chris Black, in which the columnist weighs in on hot topics in culture. Sign up here to get it in your inbox every Thursday.
Living in New York City means constantly searching for quick winter escapes that will take you from the gray, frozen tundra to warmer climates and shining sun. More often than not, people end up in Miami, a wonderful city in Florida that has an amazing selection of clubstaraunts and nightclubs, plus crypto success stories driving ugly Bugattis and the OnlyFans creators who love them. Hotel prices are astronomical, but I have never had a bad time there. Others go further—the Bahamas, Jamaica, and Puerto Rico are all quick flights. The food can be hit or miss, and don’t get me started on the pain and embarrassment of an all-inclusive property. The solution to all these problems, for me, is Charleston, South Carolina.
I grew up in Atlanta, so I have been coming to Charleston for years—with family, on school trips to learn about the area’s, uh, not-so-great history, and later, as an adult, multiple times a year, just to hang. You can take a short two-hour Delta flight from LaGuardia to Charleston International Airport. It’s a quick stroll to get a rental car; no bumpy shuttle ride with strangers is necessary. I like to rent a half-ton pickup truck to get into “Country Chris” mode; it helps me fit in on the roads and is only slightly more expensive than a depressing Nissan Altima. The drive from CHS to downtown takes 15 minutes. Downtown to the beach at Sullivan’s Island is 20 minutes. You might see a Southern Charm cast member sipping an IPA with a College of Charleston baddie on King Street. What’s not to love?
This isn’t a three-day lie-on-the-beach-with-a-book situation, but I can’t handle that level of boredom anyway. On this trip, we stayed at The Nickel, a well-appointed new 50-room hotel by the same people behind The Pinch, one of my favorites. One of the major selling points of these properties, beyond their walkable locations and serious in-room coffee setups, is that the rooms include real kitchens and washer-dryer units. The washer and dryer are a hotel-room feature I’ve never considered before, but if you exercise every day, it is a game-changer not to have to hand-wash your Nike Dri-Fit shorts in the fucking sink after three days of trying to keep up with buff Rivian drivers at Ethos Athletic Club.
People come here to eat, and for good reason. The standard is high and leans raw bar—my favorites for dinner rival restaurants in any of the great food destinations. Vern’s is a neighborhood American restaurant that has one of my favorite salads on earth. My friend Brooks Rietz has three great places in town: Leon’s, Melfi’s, and Little Jack’s Tavern. The latter has a homemade veggie burger that can stand up to the Hillstone gold-star version. Baba’s is a lunch place with three locations that absolutely delivers. (I heard a young woman ask someone, “What is that green drink?” in reference to an iced matcha latte.) If you are feeling crazy, the banana bread comes warmed up and slathered in butter. Lowland is a beautiful restaurant in an old house that serves a bad boy biscuit with farmer cheese and pepper jelly, which beats any standard bread basket. The Ordinary and FIG, tentpole OG’s, still slap. If you need a night off from white-boy delicacies, Xiao Bao Biscuit has you covered. You can’t really go wrong.
The locals' vibe is leaning a little Austin these days. The run-club look is a spreading disease. But there are still plenty of chic old Southern money types in weathered chinos, loafers, and tortoiseshell glasses, along with surfers with longboards secured to their old Toyota 4Runners. In general, people are, well, hot. Standard look for the fellas: high-crown snapback, Zyn in the upper lip, quilted vest with a UV-protecting fishing shirt, plus sport sunglasses placed upside down on the hat when not in use. Of course, there's usually a little mullet and mini-mustache in play. The ladies are committed to white Adidas Sambas, Ugg Tasman Clogs, and matching sets from ALO or Lululemon. Stanley mug in the new Ford Bronco cup holder, well-groomed expensive dog in the back seat. As you can imagine, the people watching outside of LoveShackFancy on King Street is A-plus.
We arrived on Friday afternoon when the whispers of a monumental blizzard had started on Twitter, and I didn’t think much of it. People in NYC love to freak the fuck out about the weather. When the chatter hit a fever pitch, I got on the Delta Diamond Medallion line and tried to adjust our Monday morning flight to Sunday morning. When Mamdani started trying to hire freelance snow shovelers for $30 an hour, the flight-cancellation text notifications started rolling in. After several phone calls and almost pulling the trigger on a hail mary Spirit Airlines flight, I was told we couldn’t get back until Wednesday morning. This caused several scheduling conflicts and logistical issues, but after frantically texting, emailing, and adjusting the Google Calendar, I decided to let go and let God. There are worse fates than being stuck in Charleston while New York is buried in snow. It was windy and a little chilly, but the sun was shining. I took the Silverado to Sullivan’s, parked right by the beach, and ran into the cold ocean. I toweled off, got back in the truck and was back in the city in time for dinner.