You know what women who hang off the arms of closeted gay men are called? Beards. I'm sure you all know that already, but I thought a refresher would be in order seeing as how a couple of weeks ago the James Beard awards were handed out. I guess - ultimately - a beard masks things. And, yes, they are manly. The award itself recognizes the country's finest chefs and restaurants, according to Wikipedia. The only recipient of the apparently prestigious award in South Carolina runs a kitchen two blocks from my apartment: Hominy Grill. Back when Hominy opened, it was a hidden gem among one of the more rundown neighborhoods on the western side of the peninsula. As is it now, it is one restaurant among three at the corner of a thriving - yet still rough around the edges - intersection of college-kid-populated streets.

As for Hominy Grill, I don't know how it keeps winning. The food has definitely taken a backseat to the logistics of seating throngs of curious tourists and hungover college kids. You can plan on waiting at least 30 minutes for breakfast on the weekends, typically closer to an hour. So what about the food? It's average at best. The other morning I had a biscuit that fell apart like termite-infested wood. And that's not a good thing - especially considering it tasted, I imagine, marginally better than said wood. I ended up using a fork to eat the thing. And because of all the press and tourists, everyone in there assumes you're a tourist. One waitress a few months ago tried to explain to me what homefries were when I asked her how theirs were. "Oh, they're like what you call hashbrowns." Oh, really? Well, this is what you might call "The back of my hand across your face." No one at our table was happy with our meal. Too much bread on the sandwiches. Overly greasy fries. Bland grits. So I really just want to know if anyone from the James Beard Foundation has eaten at Hominy Grill lately. I have serious doubts. So as it is, the award will continue to mask what Hominy Grill really is: a tourist trap. Hyman's anyone?

In other neighborhood eatery news, across the street from Hominy is a new restaurant called "Fuel." It's an old filling station converted into an open-air Caribbean bar and grill where fish tacos and jerked chicken are staples. The food is okay. A little on the meager side. And a little overpriced because of it. But the service is tortuous. I mean, the worst service in Charleston. Hands down. It makes Granville's seem like The Charleston Grill. Expect to wait half an hour for a beer. And you better pray for a lime. They have a bocci court in the courtyard, which seems like a great idea. However, one of my friends was pelted in the back of the head from an errant toss while waiting for her beer. That's the problem with the place: it's fraternity row. Not only does that mean it's full of drunks with collared shirts who can't control their bocci balls, but it means the vast majority of the clientele doesn't mind waiting for beer or food. They don't care about anything. And it rubs off on the staff. That's also why you'll find some of the best pizza in town next to some of the most satisfied roaches in town. At D'Allesandro's, the pizza and the beer are good and cheap. However, the roaches also like their pizza and dine on it often. There was actually an email recently circulating around the Charleston area warning folks of the roaches at D'Allesandro's. I already knew about them, by the way, so whoever you are who 'replied all' with that grammatically incorrect attack on the sender of the initial email, shut the fuck up already. Anyway, for the same reason Fuel won't fix their waitstaff problems, D'Allesandro's won't fix their roach problem: college kids. They don't care about those things. When I was in college, I probably didn't care all that much either, so I can't blame them. Still, I'd like a place to eat in this town that doesn't sacrifice food or service or sanitation in the name of price. That's right, Moe's Crosstown. See you there. And for all you CofC students: how about skipping a night out and pooling some of daddy's money to fund an actual college radio station? Surely this town could use another Jack Johnson outlet interspersed with the kind of vapid musings normally found on blogs. Hey, wait a minute. Sign me up when you get that antenna!