An Evening at The Ordinary
Celebrating the "merroir" of the Coastal Carolinas and the East Coast, supporting our regional fishermen.
I had wanted to have dinner at The Ordinary for a long time, the way you want something quietly, without announcing it, until one day you realize the wanting itself has become part of the anticipation. When we finally stepped inside, the door closing softly behind us, I knew I had arrived in a land of seafood luxury and bliss. Surely this must be a place where all the angels in heaven come to dine.
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The old bank building opens up all at once. The ceilings soar. Clean white tile and black wood accents give the room a sense of order and grace, elegant without being pretentious. It feels European at first—Parisian café energy—but then the warmth settles in, and you know exactly where you are. This is Charleston. This is the Lowcountry, just all dressed up in a tailored jacket.
We paused, as everyone seems to do, to take it all in. To the right, the long bar glowed—glasses clinking, oysters being shucked with calm precision. Straight ahead, the raw bar gleamed under mounds of crushed ice, shells arranged like small sculptures. Everything pointed back to the water. The seafood here didn’t travel far. It didn’t need embellishment. It carried its own authority.
Once seated, the room’s rhythm took hold. Servers moved easily between tables, balancing seafood towers as if they were second nature. Cocktail shakers snapped behind the bar—sharp, percussive, almost celebratory. Conversation rose and fell, laughter woven through it, the sound echoing gently off the high ceilings. It was lively but never loud, polished but never cold.
The oysters came first.
They arrived cradled in ice, each shell holding a small, perfect offering. Cold, briny, alive with mineral depth. A squeeze of lemon, a restrained touch of mignonette—nothing to get in the way. That first oyster tasted like tidewater and winter air, like standing on a dock before sunrise when the world hasn’t made its demands yet.
It was food that required your attention, your respect.
And then came the fried oysters and the shrimp roll. Below is my favorite painting of oysters by the lovely Shannon Smith Hughes. I think it belongs here.
Not flashy. Not oversized. Just right. The shrimp were sweet and firm, barely dressed, tucked into a buttered roll that knew its supporting role. One bite and I was back in the Lowcountry in a different way—not the drama of the open water, but the familiarity of kitchens and docks, of shrimp boats unloading in the heat, of meals eaten without ceremony because they didn’t need it. This was comfort and refinement sharing the same plate.
What surprised me most was how personal the experience felt. Despite the room's scale and architectural grandeur, the evening was intimate. A generosity.
It reminded me that the best places don’t just feed you—they hold you for a while. They allow you to slow down, to notice, to remember.
As the meal unfolded, everything followed that same quiet confidence. The fish was pristine. The flavors - clean and intentional. Nothing shouted. Nothing competed. Each dish trusted the ingredients and the people who brought them from water to table.
By the time the evening deepened, the light softened, and the room seemed to glow from within. The hum never left—it simply mellowed, becoming part of the atmosphere, like the tide settling after a full pull. Sitting there, glass in hand, I realized this dinner was never just about finally getting a reservation. It was about place. About patience. About the way anticipation, when met with care, turns into gratitude.
Some meals mark time. You remember who you were when you ate them. This was one of those. A night where Lowcountry warmth met Parisian ease, anchored by oysters that tasted of the sea and a shrimp roll that tasted like home.
I’d love to hear from you anytime. I’m grateful for every one of you. Stay warm.
I can almost taste the food through your writing! It’s on our list of places to eat.