I also ran into Chef Aaron Deal from Tristan, who recently earned a trip to the fabled El Bulli in Roses, Spain.  Good news is, he has agreed to chronicle his experience right here on the Eat blog so that we can all live vicariously as he experiences something most  can only dream of…

A few pics from the event –  a couple good drinking buddies and some stellar chefs, Donald Barrickman (Magnolias) and Craig Diehl (Cypress) :

We hear there are still spaces left for the cornhole tournie. The kitchen will be closed all day (so no ceviche), but there will be a $6 blue plate special with jerk chicken, barbecue, and potentially some fish tacos.

Weigh Station will be playing from 4-7 p.m. with DJ Kurfu is taking over until 9 p.m. Sticking with the theme, part of the proceeds will go to the Teacher’s Supply Closet, a charity store providing teachers with free school supplies. Drop in, drop out. It’s a great excuse to get drunk in the afternoon, throw some vegetables, and dance away the back-to-school blues. —Alison Sher

Bull Street hosts the tastings every other Thursday to provide a place for people to sip some goodness and raise money for charity.

This month’s charity is the World Wildlife Foundation, the famed panda-logoed organization helping to protect endangered species. Five dollars covers the beer and the wine, the donations are up to you.  —Alison Sher

Not a revelation, but a fact that makes judging ice cream flavors pretty difficult. Chef Marc Collins and Pastry Chef Scott Lovorn of Circa 1886 amused themselves this summer with an ice cream contest, inviting people to submit a recipe that represented Charleston. I was one of three judges tasked with scoring the three finalists yesterday afternoon. It wasn’t as easy as you’d think.

They were all good. One tasted  like a creamsicle, flavored with orange blossoms and honey. Another tasted like peach cobbler. But Seersucker, the winner (pictured far left with nut on top), reminded me of a sundae with chunks of Charleston Chews, bits of blueberry, and honey-roasted peanuts. I took one bite and forgot the oppressive heat of the scorching July afternoon.

The other judges at the table were Dean Stephens of Channel 4 and Marion Sullivan of the Post & Courier, Charleston Magazine, and Trident Tech. All three ice creams scored well, but Seersucker scored highest and its creator, Kevin Kelly, won dinner for four at Circa 1886.

On a side note: I’d like to offer my judging services to anybody else out there thinking about holding a contest. You know,  something like the best cucumber cocktail, the tastiest housemade charcuterie, or the coldest fresh oyster. One thing I won’t do again? Hotdog judging. One miserably hot afternoon a couple years ago, I sat outside at the Maritime Center as ‘contestants’ slathered room temperature Ball Park wieners with all kinds of crap: barbecue sauce, horseradish, baked beans. Blech.

I wrote a story about the Osteens back in February, after visiting their new restaurant in Las Vegas. Louis is the kind of guy who runs a restaurant by being there all the time,  getting to know the regulars and hanging out at the bar. At the time, he and his wife/partner Marlene were crisscrossing the country between South Carolina and Nevada to make sure both businesses were running smoothly. For a couple nearing retirement age, that schedule must have been exhausting. So, according to The State article, they’ve decided not to renew their Pawley’s lease.

I’ve got plans to be in Pawley’s Island on Labor Day weekend, and I’m glad we’ll be able to get our corner table on the porch one last time. I guess next year, we’ll have to make plans to hit Vegas to get our Louis fix.

There is rarely a time when journalists from all the papers in Charleston get to sit down at a table and talk nice with each other over five courses of food. Are there rivalries between publications?

I mean we all like to make fun of each other, but it’s nothing short of petty banter. The Post and Courier is full of conservative morons, the City Paper writers are a bunch of liberal buffoons, the Charleston Mercury is, well, the color of salmon. But in reality, we all satisfy a different audience.

I went to the Lettered Olive at the Wild Dunes resort, for a dinner chef Enzo Steffenelli put on for the press to get the word out about his new restaurant. Besides being a gut-busting culinary undertaking, the dinner proved to be quite the memorable dining occasion.

Sometimes I feel like people look at me funny when they find out I’m a food writer, as if they’re thinking: “What the hell does this youngun’ know about food?”

As a self-proclaimed rookie foodie, I don’t pretend I’m anything that I’m not, and my mouth is always wide open for more taste adventures.

At first, I felt a little bit of tension sandwiched between a Le Cordon Bleu graduate and writers 20 years my senior from different papers. I got the impression they were a bit skeptical of me. I guess we all do tend to stereotype as a source of self-defense. But it all stems from our own insecurity.

The interior of the Lettered Olive had a bit of a hip cafeteria vibe. There are high ceilings, huge windows, tons of seating, and nice bar. It is bright, lively, and definitely family friendly.

Chef Enzo (whose warm and demure personality is adorable, by the way) started out the evening by bringing us each out two plates of appetizer samplers. I really liked the tropical tequila ceviche. All the seafood in it was perfectly slick and tender and it didn’t have that overpowering taste of citrus that can destroy most ceviches. I also thought the sweet peach barbeque sauce on the beef short ribs was rather tasty. The Manhattan-style fish chowder, a thick, zesty stew loaded with fish, is a great alternative to a side salad.

We all got to order an entrée from the menu. The prices at the Lettered Olive may be pretty lofty, but they give you so much food it ends up being worth it. Every entrée comes with a soup/salad or a choice of two bowls of sides. My half five-spiced Asian duck was about 2 lbs. of quacker plopped on a plate. The Charleston red rice is basically a seafood buffet, bursting with half a lobster tail, and heaping portions of scallops, mussels, shrimp, and sausage in an okra-filled gumbo base.

I wasn’t really impressed with anything I tried from the rotisserie, but there were some worthwhile entrees. The halibut special of the night, drizzled with lemon sauce was a standout. When ordered with rice noodles, the “spa” wok does a very good impersonation of Pad Thai and the Charleston red rice comes highly recommended. I know all these things because I ate off of everyone’s plates.

For dessert, Holly Herrick compared the coconut cake to Bob Carter’s at Peninsula Grill, except she said that Chef Enzo’s was moister. I myself preferred the pie.

By the end of the night, my date, Buster (our precocious, fashion-savvy intern), had the 30-something women at the table swooning. The young and the old, the traditional and laissez-faire were mingling with earnest delight. I hugged the staff good-bye.

We may have been five glasses of wine deep, but in my mind, barriers were broken. We’re just people after all.

It started to rain at about four o’clock that afternoon, but it didn’t seem to effect the stroll too much. By the time 5:30 p.m. rolled around, there was only a slight drizzle, heavy enough to poof my hair and make me decide to wear a cocktail dress with sneakers but not enough to change my plans for the evening.

I began at Robert Lange Studios, one of my favorite galleries downtown, where Mike Lata from FIG was featuring a melon soup with feta cheese in a small plastic cup and a Sea Island deviled egg. The chilled soup was like a carnival grab bag of offbeat textures and flavors. The chunks of sharp feta and cantaloupe popping into mouth were fun and unexpected, but not exactly what I would enjoy if it were an entire bowl of soup. Nonetheless, still worth mentioning and not even close to the worst shot I’ve ever taken.

The Fat Hen at the Martin Gallery on Broad had the most impressive spread that I encountered. Chefs Neuville and Mazurek rocked it with four giant sweet glazed salmon fillets with dill and capers, patés, plates of charcuterie, and colorful fruit platters with dried figs served with crostinis. It was the type of platter you’d wet your pants to see at an office party.

On the corner of State and Queen streets at Helena Fox Fine Art, The Boathouse on East Bay served a swordfish, tangerine, and fennel salad. McCrady’s had scallops with sweet corn, bacon, and a tomato jam. Jeremiah Bacon from Carolina’s made a salmon napoleon, layered with scallion crepes and crème fraiche at Horton Hayes. Everything was stellar. Of course Sean Brock stepped it up, displaying his culinary talents by cooking scallops sous vide (a dish currently on McCrady’s menu) on the window sill of the Smith Killian Fine Art Gallery.

Some other honorable mentions were Cypress’ lamb bacon and green sugar peas with balsamic vinegar reduction (I had about five) and Virginia on King’s she-crab soup with brandy. Not everything out there was worth eating, though, and I walked in and out of a number of places. You have to prioritize with an event like this. It must be hard making so many little dishes without having a kitchen on site. I understand, really. To be able to make impressive dishes in such an environment really displays the talent of a chef and his team.

Next year, I hope they use recyclable silverware. Seeing all those expensive plastic cups and plates piled in the trash really disappointed me. Come on!

I didn’t make it to all of the galleries. I had to skip Tradd Street. There is no way you can do them all by foot unless you’re wearing rollerblades. By the end of the stroll, I was turning my map all sorts of twisted directions trying to figure out where my car was, until Katie Koch from advertising saved me. All in all it was a great evening, filled with good food, drinkable wine, and a bunch of tipsy foodies. But man, drinking at 5:30 in the afternoon and gorging for two hours will take a toll on you for the rest of the night. I was out by 11:30 p.m. —by Alison Sher

Special thanks to Shawn Thackery and the rest of the Supper Club crew for being so welcoming to a wayward city slicker who wandered upon their camp. Shawn, it turns out, runs Thackery Farms, where those bodacious tomatoes that we ate were grown, and he markets them through Whole Foods across the southeast as “Wadmalaw Fugglies”, but that’s another story altogether. They were the best tomatoes that I’ve had all summer — just sliced and sprinkled with salt and pepper.

It’s hard to describe in words the connection that one feels to the land and the people at a gathering like this. This is real food, with real people, who would give you the proverbial shirt of their backs. I went home with a cantaloupe, a full tummy, and a newfound impatience for the time we are going to have to wait until McCrady’s pigs are fat enough for slaughter, but I’ll have to let my snapshots do most of the talking…