To summarize, Charleston initially charmed us with bowls of chocolate pudding, gravy-smothered biscuits, and pleasant personalities.
And then, the place almost killed us.
|How Far the Mighty South Has Fallen|
|We Prefer Forts of the Pillow Variety|
|Can Anyone Throw Us a Life Raft?|
"So as long as we arrive by 2:30, we're okay?" Vodka confirms.
"At the very latest," Miss Congeniality says.
|Translation: Start Swimming|
Naturally, we opt for the latter option.
|An Overeater Has To Do What An Overeater Has To Do|
As a general rule, Vodka does not run. Not ever. To say it does not become her would be the understatement of the century. But despite this lack of skill, she and Diet Coke stumble through the front door of Husk at EXACTLY 2:30pm.
And it goes without saying that we are a hot mess.
|Never Been So Happy to See a Restaurant Sign In Our Lives|
|Too Bad We Can't Drink Antlers|
|Just Bring On the Stupid Cornbread and We'll Get Out of Your Hair|
|It Is OBVIOUSLY Gin O'Clock|
And it is, well... it's certainly smoky.
|Vodka Should Own a Pie-Cutting Shop|
|Simple Answer: We're On a Mission and/or We Never Learn|
|And Have You Ever Known Us to Turn Down a Bread Product?!|
|Husk, You Are Just Being Silly|
|For the Record, That Slice Is All Of Said Cornbread That We Consume. Poor Showing, Husk|
|Honey I Shrunk The Kids-Sized Ice|
|The Original Wing Dings|
|The Bowl Is More Appealing Than the Chicken|
|Strange Picture Proportions = BLT Looks Like a Slider|
|Mayo Makes Everything Better|
|Yet Another Specialty Condiment Which Diet Coke Won't Taste|
|How the South Was Not Won|
Husk's Smoky Bacon Cornbread: 2 stars