I’ve always liked South Carolina. But I like it even more on days like this.
The weather is overcast. The sky is cloudy. The air is so humid you could sip it with a straw.
Although the humidity is one of the best parts of South Carolina. It seeps into your pores, into your olfactory senses and into your clothes. And if you have curly hair, for example, you are screwed.
I’m on the road today. The wide saltmarshes pass by my windows like smudged impressionistic canvases of green and gold. The sky is a swell of grays. I see a blue heron in the distance, standing on a dead tree.
I stop at a little seafood joint. The place is surrounded by marshland grass, a wide open sky, scattered live oaks, and roughly 8 million Chrysler Pacifica minivans. The place looks like a tourist trap on crack. But it’s getting late so I go inside and order a beer.
“You want a South Carolina brewed beer, sweetie?” the waitress says.
“Is a bear Catholic?” I say.
She pauses a beat.
“I
don’t get it,” she says. “Is that a joke?”
I get no respect.
She brings me a beer that’s brewed in Greenville. She cracks open the tallboy can. The brewery is called Birds Fly South. The beer is named “Days Like This.” It’s a Kölsch, whatever that means.
“Days Like This,” I say, reading the can.
“It drinks pretty good,” the waitress says. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Then she hands me a menu. “You want some oysters? Just got’em in a few hours ago.”
I fold the menu closed. Because this woman is singing my culinary song. I am a Florida child. Raw oysters are my love language. Especially on Days Like This.
The waitress brings my platter of bivalves.
“Any hot sauce, sweetie?”
I shake my head. I don’t need hot sauce or fresh lemon if…