Certain places evoke happy memories for people. Usually it’s a place from their childhood, like the zoo or a playground, or maybe even Disney World (the actual happiest place on earth). But for me, it’s The Charcoal House. Yes, you read that correctly: a steakhouse in Rock Hill is my version of Disney World.
I have a long history with the place. (Full disclosure: I have no ownership stake in The Charcoal House; heck, the owner doesn’t even know my name.) It just brings me joy. I’ve actually been in a relationship with it longer than with my husband. So what is it—the outstanding food? Oh, they have a great steak. I always get the same thing, Steak by George (I’m not sure who George is), but I’ve had better steaks. Is it the service? Well, the wait staff is excellent, and not in a fawning way, but that’s not it. And it’s not the interior. It is a small place, cozy really, darkly lit like a good steak house should be, but I couldn’t tell you the color of the walls and I have eaten there more than 100 times. It’s just that every time I eat there, I have fun, and I often end up with a new entertaining memory.
My mom used to take an annual girls trip, which meant my dad and I would be left alone to feed ourselves. Well, I was supposed to feed him, but I wasn’t exactly the best cook. For some reason, I believed that a meal needed to have a marketing theme, like ‘White Night,’ which was fish, rice and cauliflower. Or ‘Coney Island Night,’ which was a hot dog with canned chili poured on top. By the end of the week my dad would suggest we go to The Charcoal House for something that would not necessitate an entire package of Tums. It was fun. Coming from a family of six, you didn’t often have one-on-one time with your dad, unless of course you were in trouble.
When my husband and I first got married, we were broke. We quickly figured out that on most Friday nights, my parents would head to The Charcoal House for dinner. So, after work, each of us coincidentally would show up at their house for a beer on our way home from work and drink that beer very slowly. So slowly, they would feel compelled to invite us along to dinner. It was the best meal of our week. And, yes, we asked for all the leftovers, including the crackers and rolls. (Not the butter; I have some standards!)
Once we could pay our own bills and go anywhere we wanted to eat, we kept going back to The Charcoal House. I think we liked the idea that it was so ‘retro’ and ‘unhip,’ which in its own way made it hip. We were often the youngest people in the place by 30 years—that made it even better. We introduced lots of our friends to the glory of The Charcoal House. We always had a good time and meal.
This past Saturday night, as I sat there enjoying another Steak by George, my friend pointed out we were no longer the youngest people in the room. Not only did we fit in, we were the appropriate demographic. So it may have taken a little gray in my hair and readers perched on my nose to finally really belong to the happiest place on earth. But that’s OK, because it felt oh so right. Someone, please bring me another steak and scotch.
Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.
