Local Flavor

Ode to Peaches, Pork Cheeks and Puntini Drops

Food writer Deb Barshafsky extols the virtues of the nearby foodways of the great state of South Carolina.

by Deb Barshafsky

They say good fences make good neighbors and no two neighbors have a better fence than Georgia and South Carolina. The mighty Savannah, with headwaters in the Blue Ridge Mountains, is also known by more lyrical monikers such as Westobou, Kosalu and the Isundiga. Call it what you will, this 350-mile alluvial river forms most of the border between Georgia and Carolina, before it becomes an estuary, where fresh water meets salt, in the port city of Savannah—the coastal settlement that also bears the name that finally stuck on the body of water that cuts a muddy swath through the heart of the CSRA.

Despite the fence that is the Savannah, Georgia and Carolina haven’t always been such good neighbors. When Georgia was chartered in 1732, it encroached on Carolina’s territory and 30 years after the fact George the Third had to step in and referee, ultimately granting Georgia lands south of the Altamaha River. There were also some dust-ups between James Oglethorpe, Georgia’s founding father, and South Carolina traders, which involved rum running and tossing a few South Carolinians into the pokey.

On January 12, 1861, the New York Times published a letter to the editor signed by “A Georgian in New York” about the merits of Georgia compared to its neighbor, a somewhat strident opinion about “why she [a reference to Carolina] will fail.” Bear in mind this was three months prior to the start of the Civil War (or should I say the War of Northern Aggression?). Civil unrest and talk of secession was rampant. In fact, the Georgian’s epistle was printed just two short weeks after South Carolina, the first state to do so, left the Union. We can assume emotions were running high.

“There is no sharper thorn in the side of South Carolina,” wrote our displaced (and disgruntled) Georgian, “than the fact that she only has pretensions to found her claims to superiority upon.” Why don’t you try that line out at the next Border Bash? Granted, it lacks the directness of fan favorite “You Suck” but could come in handy if you’re a diehard Bulldog and find yourself confronted by a crazed Gamecock swinging a rubber chicken dangerously close to your red and black puffy finger.

Me? I claim no state in this debate. While I’ve lived in Georgia my entire adult life, I wandered the halls of academe in Carolina’s capital city. I owe my understanding of regression analysis, correlation coefficients and holistic scoring to the University of South Carolina. Unlike our Georgian in New York, I don’t find Carolina to be “a very unpleasant neighbor, who is continually asking you for favors, and never has one to reciprocate.” I’ve had way too many dinner invites from Scott and Gina, friends of ours from North Augusta, to buy into that rhetoric. Viewing the world as I do through the lens of my appetite, I enjoy having the Palmetto State as my neighbor and often cross the fence to sup at her table.

I don’t remember the first time I traversed the river. It was probably as a teenager in the company of my parents on our way to some dusty auction house. I didn’t mind going to those sorts of things. While my parents eyed the antique oak furniture and collectible pottery, they usually slipped me a few bucks to spend on hand-cut fries and a greasy little cheeseburger at the joint’s snack bar. Food has always been a great placater for me. On long summer car trips from Augusta to New Jersey, when things started to get a little hairy between my sister and me, my mother would toss a couple of salami and cheese sandwiches into the back of the station wagon to buy a little peace until the next skirmish.

I do, however, remember the first time I intentionally crossed the river to eat. It was for the Scotch eggs at the Highlander, a British pub in North Augusta. I was not yet 20. Over the past 25 years, I’ve come to appreciate what South Carolina has to offer—from Edisto Island shrimp (tis the season) to fresh peaches from the roadside stands on the way to Trenton. When I was in graduate school in Columbia, I lived on the special at Andy’s Deli in Columbia and ate more than my fair share of atomic wings and raw fries at Rupert’s. I’ve eaten my way through the beach village of Hilton Head and the metropolis of Charleston, but I’ve also dined in more remote locales as well—in Moncks Corner, Kingstree and even l’il ole McBee in Chesterfield County, population 714, back when I monitored a bluebird trail at the Carolina Sandhills National Wildlife Refuge. The meal? A steak, albeit a thin one, and a warm soda at the Company Store and Restaurant on the main thoroughfare.

While I still score Scotch eggs in North Augusta and I do love the malts at the Sno-Cap, I don’t feel as if I’ve left home when I’m there. I don’t feel as if I’ve traveled, that I’ve crossed a state line. Every one needs, as Georgia O’Keeffe described the Southwest, “a nearby faraway,” and for me that’s Aiken, S.C. From its perfect polo fields to its lush public gardens and parks (Hitchcock Woods has three times the acreage of Central Park!), to its quaint city center, I love this little town. Not that I don’t enjoy my own city, but coming to Aiken makes me feel like I’ve left home without the inconvenience of packing. Sidewalk dining at Café Rio Blanco (the fiery homemade habanero sauce! the yucca! the ropa vieja!)—the peppery bloody Marys at Davor’s—the sheer exuberance of Chef Bradley Czajka at Oliv’a—and the thirst-slaking Thoroughbred Red at Aiken Brewing Company.

But perhaps my favorite Aiken haunt is the Old Aiken Market, a charming two-story grocery store located on Park Avenue. It’s the only place I can find my most favored candies of the moment—Puntini drops, tiny sophisticated Italian jujubes and Bajadera, rapturous Croatian nougat. But I like the Old Aiken Market for a lot more than sugar. Tom, the butcher, was the hero of my pork cheek adventure, my months-long quest to procure the cheek of the pig so that I could recreate a luscious meal I had lapped up in a small town in east Germany while visiting for my uncle’s 70th birthday.

Regular readers will recall that a butcher much closer to home opted out of my escapades. And another in Atlanta procured a few that were still attached to much of the pig’s face, which required an anatomical dissection that shall not be repeated in this lifetime. No, it was a Carolina carver at the Old Aiken Market who acquired a beautiful selection of organic pork cheeks from Neiman Ranch, fork-tender morsels we braised in a mirepoix much to the delight of our supper club when we gathered for a German-inspired meal. This is the kind of service that inspires devotion. So I’ll keep making my regular runs for the border—for freshly seined Edisto shrimp, for the Cuban fare at Café Rio Blanco, for those wonderful little jujubes at the Old Aiken Market and for the occasional odd cut of meat.

We’ve come a long way as a nation since that disgruntled Georgian penned his missive. Nonetheless, talk of secession still has legs in some circles. Carolina, if you ever decide to secede from the Union again, please don’t take your peaches.