Xoxo F.
Yelp
My sister and I, two strong-willed East Coasters raised on sarcasm, sandwich standards, and kosher-style dills, set out to have ourselves a genteel little lunch. Linen was worn. Expectations were medium-high. Spirits were elevated.
We were seated between two women with hair so perfectly coiffed it looked like it came with a security detail... and a woman priest. A real one. I had just made a joke about hell when I spotted the collar. She smiled. I panicked. My sister kicked me under the table. We proceeded to behave ourselves for roughly eight minutes.
The Picnic Punch was phenomenal, bright, sweet, and dangerously good. Honestly, we'd drink it from a solo cup behind a church or synagogue if we could.
The broccoli side was a star. Perfectly seasoned like someone cared, and unfortunately portioned for a pixie. We savored it like it was a luxury item.
Pasta salad had no taste. Zero. Like chewing beige. We kept hoping it would kick in like a delayed-release snack. It didn't.
The other side was... there. Physically. Emotionally? We have no memory.
We tried three sandwiches--tuna, turkey, and egg salad and each one was a Trojan horse for sweet pickles.
Listen: if sweet pickles are your thing, congratulations, you've found the promised land. But we come from a household where pickles are tangy, briny, and a little judgmental. These? They were sugar bombs in mayo disguise.
Now, the place itself? Absolutely darling. The décor was charming, the staff was lovely, and everyone looked like they had a monogrammed tote bag in their car just in case. We totally understand why locals love it, it's sweet, stylish, and full of Southern hospitality.
It just wasn't our flavor journey.
TL;DR: Gorgeous setting, holy seatmates, and a sweet pickle ambush we're still recovering from. We crossed ourselves with dill, thanked the priest, and slipped quietly out the door.
Xoxo, gossip, gravy and a biscuit