Charleston's 39 Rue de Jean

I was excited to escape the daily routine and get back to Charleston, South Carolina, one of my favorite cities.  Charleston is filled to the brim with a fascinating history, from the founding of the United States to the present, along with fabulous architecture, seaside scenery, old markets, plantations, and mouthwatering restaurants. 

 

I’ve been going to this city for the best part of fifty years and eaten in both the upper crust, coat and tie establishments, and the smoke-filled-sawdust-on-the-floor barbecue joints.  And as my three faithful readers know, I’ve written about several of them in this blog.

 

Lately, when I visited the Holy City…wait a sec, holy city?  Oh, I know you’re begging for some details, and answering that question is a good start.

 

Charleston was established in 1680 (by Royal Charter of King Charles II) and moved to its present downtown location in 1783.  The old site is still well marked, and about a couple of miles north.

 

Since its founding, Charleston’s been known for its tolerance for all religions and boasts many historic churches to prove the point.  The most famous of which is The Huguenot Church, founded by French Protestants who fled France when Louis XIV revoked the Edit of Nantes and revived the persecutions of non-Catholics.  Matter of fact, it’s the only Huguenot church in the U.S. and still uses the French liturgy, but in English.

 

With a French religious flavor, it’s only natural that one of the best restaurants in this well-preserved old city has a French name, 39 Rue de Jean.  As you may guess, it is located at 39 John Street.   If you don’t feel like guessing, it’s still at 39 John Street.

 

But, more than a French name, 39 Rue de Jean has an atmosphere that rivals that of restaurants in another of America’s French influenced cities, New Orleans.

Large, 18^th or 19^th century mirrors line the walls, chairs at the tables have a French café flair, the bar is gloriously dark and long, and best of all, the menu is a compilation of delicious French fare.

I admit to being something of a secret snob.  My companion differs.  “Not so secret,” she says.

 

Well, ok, I admit it, if being a snob means appreciating a well-trained, polite wait staff, dressed in traditional black and white, and who know the details of everything on the menu.  And, perhaps I should mention bartenders who mix from scratch, know how flavors fit together, and in my case, know how to make an excellent Manhattan, served straight up in a delightfully chilled martini glass.

Ok, you’ve gotten the French ambiance of modulated voices, lowered lighting, antique, tinned ceilings, and a wonderful wait staff.  Now it is time to speak of the reason we came to this fine establishment: the menu.  Firstly, we shared a plate of Hunters Gnocchi, featuring house made duck fat gnocchi, rabbit sausage, wild mushrooms, goat cheese, and arugula, all afloat in a buttery wine sauce.  

For the main course, I opt …(yes op is present tense and opt is past tense, despite what the bad news bearers of horrid English proclaim)… for a nearly fork tender, Angus steak with a mound of herbed butter, and crisp frites on the side, along with a delightful glass of pinot noir.

My dinner companion and designated chauffeur ordered trout almandine in brown butter, covered with gently fried almonds, and served over a soft potato purée and crisply tender haricot verts (green beans) on the side.  And, of course, no French meal would be a meal without a fresh baguette, although in the American style, fresh butter was also offered.

Ok, buddy, you thinking, you’ve impressed us with your uncompromising command of French, tossing out words like rue and Jean, and them hardy cut beans.  But, how about the taste!

 

I judge the excellent meal thusly:  if I walk away saying to myself, mighty chef that you are, you couldn’t have done better at home, then it was an excellent meal.  This meal was excellent!  And added to that, the French ambiance, a worthy Manhattan, and superb waiter, Aaron, made this a special evening.  To top it off, we shared a Lemon Cream Torte with strawberry coulis.

And of course we finished with an espresso.

Bientôt encore j’espère! Or, in gooder English, Damn I wanna do this again!

Recharging at The Battery - Charleston, SC

Some of the many stately cannon

Porcher-Simonds House, 1856 

To mention Charleston, South Carolina and history in the same breath is to be redundant.  It’s in the salty air that’s filled a million sails, on the smooth cobblestone streets, under the shadows of the magnificent antebellum mansions, among the spreading bi-centenarian oak trees, borne on the swaying fronds of the tall palmetto trees. 

I mentioned antebellum mansions.  Everybody know that antebellum means prewar, or in Charleston’s case, pre-Civil War?

The Battery.  You may know it by other gentrified names, like Battery Park, or White Point Gardens.  Dozen of names have been stamped on this jutting portion of the Charleston peninsula, at the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers.  At times it’s been Fort Broughton, or Fort Wilkins (Revolutionary War and War of 1812).  In 1837 it became a park, only to revert to it’s military lineage during the Civil War.

Who fired the first shots of the civil war and from where?  Was it from The Battery?  As with most conflicts, the answer twists in the wind.  Some say the shots fired at Harper’s Ferry, during John Brown’s raid were first.  Some say the battles that raged in Kansas for the best part of tens years were the first.  Others say cadets from The Citadel (The Military College of South Carolina) fired at a ship on 9 Jan 1861 (Star of the West) sent to relieve the union garrison at Fort Sumter.

Those were all sparks, certainly.  But to my mind, the Civil War began after succession, not with a few stray rifle shots at an unarmed relief ship, but when the Confederacy decided to fire on Ft Sumter.  If we use that as a starting point, the first shots were fired from Morris Island, as recorded by Abner Doubleday, Sumter’s second in command, and later the inventor of baseball.  12 April 1861.

During the Civil War, The Battery played a prominent and continuing role and in the end, tons of Confederate explosives were blown up here to prevent them from being captured by Union Forces.

War is not the only page of The Battery’s bloody history.  Pirates roamed these waters and many were hung from the oak trees in what is now The Battery.

These days, The Battery is a place for tourists to wander and stare out across Charleston Harbor to Fort Sumter.  Children roam the grounds and climb the cannon and stacks of cannon balls.  Monuments are tucked into every corner of the tree-covered respite, and horse-drawn carriages offer tours.  Best of all are the magnificent homes that line the streets, most built by wealthy merchants, shippers, and cotton brokers.

The Battery offers a microcosm of Charleston’s glorious and inglorious past.  At the same time, it’s a quiet corner of one of America’s most historic and interesting cities.  If a quick stroll isn’t enough for you, check out bed and breakfasts occupying several of The Battery’s oldest mansions.   Stroll down the street to see Rainbow Row, of Porgy and Bess fame, or dine at any of Charleston’s fine restaurants.  Me? I’m partial to 39 Rue de Jean, which as you might imagine is located at 39 John Street!

In any case, a visit to The Battery has got to be at the top of your list when you visit Charleston, South Carolina.  It’s a welcome stroll along the water’s edge, a moment to pause and reflect in the shade of ancient oaks.  There are other parks, in other cities, many of them beautiful, majestic, and serene, but The Battery is special.  It’s different and somehow more soothing.  It’s a vision of layers of history come alive.

Monument to Confederate Defenders of Charleston

William Moultrie, a general and hero of the Revolutionary War

View from near The Battery

Carriage rides!  A Must!