One day you’re going to say fuck it and travel again. Mark my words, it’ll happen. Especially if you’re a foodie. One day you’ll wake up tired of riding the Habitrial between the bathroom and the living room or the cubicle and car and you’ll start doom scrolling Air BnB and VRBO. If you’re a foodie right now, almost eleven months into quarantine, you’re ready to make a pilgrimage or two and say fuck COVID. That Trump shitshow was stressful too. You deserve a weekend. At least I think you do. You should take one. Just wear a mask and stay away from people. It can be done. Kristin and I traveled for over three months in 2020. We ate in some amazing places (and more than a few shit ones too) and we wouldn’t change a thing. The travel has brought us together in ways that our sedentary life in Memphis never could.
The best part? We didn’t get sick. We were smart. If we walked into a place and the hostess was wearing her mask under her nose, we left. If cooks didn’t wear gloves, we left. If there was a line, we left. I scouted kitchens (and bathrooms). We ordered takeout. A lot. And sat in more than a few parking lots with foil wrapped amazingness dripping sriracha aioli onto our clothes. Town were conquered. Epiphanies were had.
I’d like this series of posts to serve as a realistic bucket list of culinary pilgrimage destination spots that you might want plug into your car’s GPS when you finally say fuck it. If you make it to any of them, send me an email and share your experience. They all meant a lot to my wife and I, and I’d like to know if my favorite cooks are still there.
When I get some time, I’m going to tell you about the best restaurant in the South. It’s in Charleston. Go figure. And it certainly doesn’t live up to its ironic name. Kristin and I met the Food God there.