Charleston Day 1

Charleston Day One

We hit the road as soon as I got off work. I always feel like I miss out on the chaotic fun of "getting ready to go" when I’m the only one clocking in that day. Packing the car is my Tetris moment of glory, but honestly, I’ll take any excuse to leave early—especially when it’s the day after a three-day weekend and I’m about to stretch it into a six-day weekend. Can we officially call that an 8-day weekend? Is there a limit to how many days you can tack onto a weekend before it’s just...a week?

The drive to Charleston was eight hours in a rental car. Would you believe they actually had the car we reserved? Of course not—they didn’t. The four of us were packed into something resembling our booking and heading to Charleston, North—no, South Carolina. My wife took the wheel because she loves driving, and I love not hearing how my driving “makes her feel like a bag of loose marbles in a blender.” My challenge? Staying in a position that looked awake while half-snoozing. Toss in a few strategic “That’s wild!” comments during the podcast, and I was golden.

We arrived at our hotel suite, where we quickly discovered that tagalongs like us earned the luxury of the pancake-pull-out mattress. My back let me know it was already time for a drink. But first, coffee—because it’s always coffee until craft beer.

Breakfast was our next adventure. This isn’t one of those "second breakfast—we’re hobbits" jokes. This is a "Yelp reservations are meaningless" joke. We booked a table, showed up on time, and even behaved like functioning adults. Then they told us there’d be a 20-minute wait. Naturally, we moved on to our second breakfast choice, which had better live up to the hype.

"Can I get a large iced coffee?"

Moments later, I stared at the tiny cup in my hand. "What is this? Coffee for ants?" I thought, already planning my return to the counter for a refill.

Breakfast was next: three items ordered, one item received. We took our bag of disappointment to the nearest pseudo-table to dig in. Who am I kidding—it was a garbage can. Rain drizzled down, but we had the luxury of an awning. Ever the optimist, I declared, "Rain has never stopped us before!"

Cue the narrator's voice from the heavens: "Little did he know, rain would stop them today."

We scrapped most of our sight-seeing plans—oh no, anyway—and managed to check out a couple of spots. I played bodyguard, holding an umbrella over my wife while she captured the essence of Charleston in photos. Her turn to pick the next activity. I braced myself.

"What's a socially acceptable time to drink around here?" I asked the universe, already knowing the answer was "sooner than later."

"It's noon," my wife said confidently. "We checked. All the breweries open at noon."

And just like that, the first actual stop of the trip—drinking-related, of course—was Tradesmen Brewing. The decor screamed garage mechanic chic. What does chic even mean? Is there a decor style that doesn’t end in chic?

We had time to kill before the Airbnb check-in, so I got to bend the sacred "one beer per stop" rule and ordered a flight. It included a stout, a hefeweizen, and two beers from something called the Yeast Project: 1 and 3. Apparently, 2 and 4 were MIA, which felt like an unsolved mystery. The Yeast Project beers were the same base brew, just made with different yeasts. You wouldn’t believe how wildly different they tasted—one was citrusy, and the other straight-up bubblegum. Who knew yeast could be this experimental?

After consuming "too much beer for one stop," we rode the buzz to the Airbnb. The driveway was just wide enough to park the rental car but not quite wide enough for my love handles to escape it. The place itself? Beautiful, immaculately clean, and definitely decorated in some sort of chic. We dropped off our stuff and headed straight to the next brewery.

By then, I was still buzzing, and a question lingered in the air: why don’t we have rules about how much beer to drink at each stop? Rules might’ve been useful...or at least given me something to break later.

The next stop was Edmund's Oast—and they had snacks! After a few drinks, I was firmly in the snack zone. Wings and egg rolls? It sounded wrong, but my taste buds filed a strong objection. I went for a second round, but my request was denied. "We’re eating dinner soon," I was told. What does that have to do with anything? This is for pleasure, not sustenance!

Also, a quick shoutout to their bathroom. A clean bathroom is the unsung hero of any brewery crawl, and this one was elite. They even had those foot... things—not sure what they’re officially called—foot handles to open the door without touching it. The faucets were automatic, and I didn’t have to flail around like a mime practicing Tai Chi to get them to work. Top-tier experience.

Beer-wise, I tried their porter and IPA, both solid. Then my wife spotted some mysterious pink drink, and the hunt was on. As her loyal husband, it became my duty to confidently order it without embarrassment.

"Can I get the pink drink for my wife?" Nailed it.

The bartender clarified, "Do you mean the #139 Dry Rosé Cider by Wolffer Estate Vineyard?"

"Yes, exactly what I meant," I replied, feeling like I had nailed it again.

From there, we split into two groups: one team to return the rental car and another to scout the next bar. Naturally, I called dibs on the bar team. It was kind of far, though, so we made a tactical stop at a gin bar for a palate reset. They had beer too! I ordered a local IPA from Fatty’s Beer Works because, frankly, gin scares me. A teammate braved a gin cocktail hilariously named "Deviled Eggs”— and… it’s an appetizer.

By the time we reached the next bar, the car team had already arrived. What was our job again? Oh well, onward to 5Church.

Dinner followed at Poogan’s Porch. I had prepped a list of local beer-related questions to dazzle the server, but my wife gently suggested I stop harassing the staff. To her dismay, the server happily answered every question—knowledgeably and enthusiastically. Vindicated, I ordered the duck, a dish I love to critique because it’s notoriously hard to cook. But this time? No complaints. It was perfect.

After dinner, I raised an important concern: we had no at-home beer. This was a serious issue. Back to the store we went, splitting into two teams again because it worked so well earlier. Somehow, we ended up with two different mango beers. Who’s in charge here? Never mind, doesn’t matter. We made it home with three 12-packs—two mango. Did anyone grab any pink drinks?