Southern snacking

Some people can eat their breakfast, lunch and dinner per 24-hour cycle and call it a day, not a single snack in between and it’s all good.

I, sweet reader who probably already guessed this, am not one of those people. (Also, for the record, I’m not one of those people who ever just forgets to eat. It doesn’t matter how busy I am, I always remember to eat. Who are you, people who forget?)

Happy hour's the best hour. Ask this Moscow mule.

Happy hour’s the best hour. Ask this Moscow mule.

My sister and I were already one full meal and several snacks into our first day in Charleston when I realized that this girl right here, needed a snack. And a drink. (Friday afternoon and out of town? Bartender!)

On a trusted friend and local’s recommendation, we popped into The Rarebit, a cute bar with an even cuter draw: $5 Happy hour Moscow mules.

FIVE dollars? Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit! (I love that saying and I don’t ever get to use it, and here I am writing about southern food so I’m rolling with it. Follow me.) It wasn’t some rinky dink mule either. This was a crisp, deliciously cold, wonderfully refreshing Moscow mule made with Smirnoff vodka, Sweatman’s ginger beer, and zesty limeade, served in a traditional, gorgeous copper mug.

No bad time for grits.

No bad time for grits.

And because the point of our afternoon stop was to appease our peckishness, we got a couple things to eat. A sidenote here: I love breakfast. I love it in the morning, I love it in the afternoon, I love it at night. There’s no designated time for it in my book, because any time’s a good time for breakfast, especially if and when it involves one of my favorites: grits.

Fried okra, cause this is the south, dammit.

Fried okra, cause this is the south, dammit.

In addition to being a cute bar with friendly service, flattering lighting, and those beautiful Moscow mules, The Rarebit also serves all day breakfast, which because hello the south, includes grits. Sigh. Be still my heart.

We ordered a side of them (you know, just a casual snack) and they were surprisingly some of the best grits I’ve ever had. Just plain ol’ grits, no cheese or bacon or shrimp or any of those things that make a good thing great, served with no frills packs of butter, and yet…delicious. Not too runny, just perfectly creamy and thick, warm and comforting.

A side of grits would barely be enough for one De Angelis, much less two, so to go with it and to keep with our theme of when-in-Rome-eat-as-the-Romans, we also got fried okra. One of the most traditional southern veggies, these particular green pods were crusted in a crispy, crunchy coating and served with a tangy, creamy sauce.

How, knowing that this kind of deliciousness is out there waiting to be had, could someone not want to partake between meals, or worse, just forget about it all together? I tell ya, sometimes I just don’t know about people.

Brunch amongst the hipsters

Sometimes you just have to get out of Manhattan, even if only for a few hours and even if only to go as far as a different borough. This Sunday I did just that when Flaneur and I left the frat-tastic world of Murray Hill to go explore Brooklyn.

Sunday funday at egg

And what better way to start off a Sunday morning than with brunch? The answer is there is no better way because every Sunday should involve brunch. After consulting my trusted guide to, well, everything in life (Google) I found the perfect place: egg, in hipster haven Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

It only took one menu item to convince me: biscuits and gravy. I will do cartwheels and somersaults for biscuits and gravy.  It’s such a fatty, comforting, almost nostalgic food that I try and eat it whenever I see it, which isn’t often. In Gainesville, biscuits and gravy were on any menu that included breakfast but not in New York City. I always search amongst the pancakes and French toast, the omelettes and the breakfast sandwiches but nothing. Sometimes they have biscuits, but no gravy. Must be a southern thing.

When we got to egg (yes, it really is with a lowercase e), the small waiting area in the front was packed. Guys in skinny jeans, tattered sweaters and Ray Bans squeezed in next to girls with thick-rimmed glasses, funny shoes and in the case of one girl there, mullets. It was like a live commercial for Urban Outfitters.

We wrote our name on the list and waited outside, enjoying the relative silence of Brooklyn compared to the constant cacophany of Manhattan, which most of the time appears to be concentrated outside my window. Maybe 30 minutes later, our name was called and in we went.

My game plan from the beginning was biscuits and gravy. When I picked up the menu my eyes immediately went to them on the menu, first on the list. “Homemade buttermilk biscuits in sawmill gravy made with pork sausage or pan-seared mushrooms,” I read to Flaneur, bouncing my feet on the ground in excitement.

But then my eyes wandered and saw something else. And then something else. And then something else again. Before I knew it, I was having second thoughts on the biscuits and gravy.

Everything sounded so good. Why do I have to choose? Why isn’t there some kind of sampler breakfast feast? Why God why?

Flaneur's French toast

Flaneur sat there looking at me, already set on what he wanted: French toast and a side of bacon. Easy. Me on the other hand, I was in the midst of a crisis.

“Are you guys ready to order?” asked our waitress, who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, pen and pad in hand, ready to take our order now or never.

Flaneur gave me a look. Pick something already, I’m hungry.

“Uhm, uhmm,” I stalled, “you go first!”

Flaneur’s order was simple. It would only buy me about 15 seconds. I had to act fast. My eyes flew over the menu one last time, just as the waitress turned towards me.

“Uhm, ok, well, uhh,” I started. Her look was bordering on a glare.

“Ok, got it,” I blurted with newfound resolve. “I’ll have the country ham biscuit, please.”

“Great, thanks,” she said, collecting our menus and zipping off.

I let out a sigh of relief. I had ditched the plan and opted for something I had never had. It sounded interesting and as much as I love biscuits and gravy, the tally of how many I’ve had in my life is probably in the hundreds. I felt I was being adventurous in trying something new. Go me, I thought. A biscuit with country ham, Grafton cheese, and what sold me on it—fig jam, all with a side of grits. (Note: grits are another breakfast staple for me. My mom recently mailed me a box of instant grits because she knows how I feel about them.)

While we waited, Flaneur and I drew on the paper tablecloth with the Crayons provided. He drew a head. I drew asparagus and the icing on a cupcake. Before I could draw the base, our waitress was back with plates in hand, leaving my half finished cupcake with its cartoonish swirl looking like a purple cartoon poo.

Breakfast faves

I have to admit, when she set the plate down, it looked like something was missing, like it wasn’t as visually appealing as I wanted. Grits are never exactly great looking in general, so I felt a bit of food envy when I saw Flaneur’s plate and the fat French toast and thick strips of bacon sitting on it.

Yet when I took the first forkful of grits, all my envy disappeared. These grits were delicious! They tasted worlds better than the instant mush I make at home. They actually tasted like corn! I had almost forgotten that’s what grits were made out of. They were thick but smooth, not too dry and clumpy, or too watered down.

Almost makes you want to lick the screen doesn't it?

But the star of the show was definitely the biscuit sandwich. If you’re like me, and you like a mix of both sweet and savory, this is the way to go. The homemade fig jam added a subtle sweetness between the biscuit, ham, and the melted cheese that oozed down the side.

And what I first had thought wasn’t going to be enough food, was more than enough. The biscuit was stacked up pretty high, making it even too much to get from top to bottom in just one mouthful. The grits, which came in a large mound, were also pretty filling and by the time it was all gone all I could do was sit back and say, “Man, that was good.”

During all that I did manage to sneak a bite of the French toast and it was pretty delicious too, soft and thick without being chewy. The menu said it was made with a slice of Amy’s brioche. I don’t know who Amy is but she deserves a pat on the back at the very least.

A trip to egg was everything I could have asked for out of a Sunday: a welcome mini escape from Manhattan, a change of scenery, a slight twist on an old favorite, and a very delicious, belly filling brunch. And best of all, I now know where I can find biscuits and gravy, and it’s safe to say they’re probably awesome.