Photo for thegazz.com by Walker DeVille. Click to enlarge

Do not go inside the bar at Cafe Paris unless you are prepared for a French cafe/bar experience. Meaning, a haze of carcinogenic smoke sure to make any European feel right at home as they work on the sexy cigarette rasp to their voice that makes one so appealling in smoky dives (less so, in the morning on the pillow beside you.) Lovely view through the smoke of downtown Charleston streets. Plus, relive simpler times when candle-melted jugs was the height of haute cusine table dressings!

Photo for thegazz.com by Walker DeVille. Click to enlarge

Do not go inside the bar at Cafe Paris unless you are prepared for a French cafe/bar experience. Meaning, a haze of carcinogenic smoke sure to make any European feel right at home as they work on the sexy cigarette rasp to their voice that makes one so appealling in smoky dives (less so, in the morning on the pillow beside you.) Lovely view through the smoke of downtown Charleston streets. Plus, relive simpler times when candle-melted jugs was the height of haute cusine table dressings!

Photo for thegazz.com by Walker DeVille. Click to enlarge.

Some people think the Eiffel Tower outlined in lights is tacky on the side of Cafe Paris. I disagree. It’s beyond tacky, pushing into camp. Charleston needs more camp. Personally, I look forward to the boulangerie a flyer in the window promises is coming soon. Fresh French baguettes in downtown Charleston! Can pastis be far behind?

Photo for thegazz.com by Walker DeVille. Click to enlarge.

Some people think the Eiffel Tower outlined in lights is tacky on the side of Cafe Paris. I disagree. It’s beyond tacky, pushing into camp. Charleston needs more camp. Personally, I look forward to the boulangerie a flyer in the window promises is coming soon. Fresh French baguettes in downtown Charleston! Can pastis be far behind?

700 Capitol Street is where to get it. Photo by Walker DeVille

Let’s get to the most important thing about daily city life. In a word: coffee. Where to find it at its finest in Charleston? Not just any coffee. We speak here of espresso, the fine art blazed by those lovely Italians who unlocked the greatness hidden in the bean. Alas, there is much espresso moyenne about: average, tepid. Starbucks, je vous accuse! Once, their best barristas pulled each espresso by hand with finesse. Now, monstrous, automatic $6,000 pod machines rule. I do not send you to the several Starbucks in the area.

Neither do I point you to Taylor Books on Capitol Street, an otherwise estimable establishment (very European in sensibility!). Yet their coffee is not of a (permit me a young person’s parlance?) kick-ass intensity. For that, run to Sofia’s Gourmet Coffee, 700 Capitol St. Have the lovely lady pull you an espresso — smoky, rich, intense as a Belgian dark chocolate. A dash of cream? A trace of sugar, if you need it. Not too much! Let the espresso speak. Then, go to the free computer and post a comment to this blog, espresso essence on your tongue. The caffeine has begun to make your mind spin with creative vigor. Your lust for life is enlarged. Now, don’t you feel better?

700 Capitol Street is where to get it. Photo by Walker DeVille

Let’s get to the most important thing about daily city life. In a word: coffee. Where to find it at its finest in Charleston? Not just any coffee. We speak here of espresso, the fine art blazed by those lovely Italians who unlocked the greatness hidden in the bean. Alas, there is much espresso moyenne about: average, tepid. Starbucks, je vous accuse! Once, their best barristas pulled each espresso by hand with finesse. Now, monstrous, automatic $6,000 pod machines rule. I do not send you to the several Starbucks in the area.

Neither do I point you to Taylor Books on Capitol Street, an otherwise estimable establishment (very European in sensibility!). Yet their coffee is not of a (permit me a young person’s parlance?) kick-ass intensity. For that, run to Sofia’s Gourmet Coffee, 700 Capitol St. Have the lovely lady pull you an espresso — smoky, rich, intense as a Belgian dark chocolate. A dash of cream? A trace of sugar, if you need it. Not too much! Let the espresso speak. Then, go to the free computer and post a comment to this blog, espresso essence on your tongue. The caffeine has begun to make your mind spin with creative vigor. Your lust for life is enlarged. Now, don’t you feel better?

Photo for thegazz.com by Walker DeVille. Click to enlarge

I love the quotations of exotic gingerbread detail on the Masonic Temple, at the corner of Virginia and Hale Streets. Charleston is in desperate need of more interesting architecture. Here, study the most architecturally interesting city in America.

Photo for thegazz.com by Walker DeVille. Click to enlarge

I love the quotations of exotic gingerbread detail on the Masonic Temple, at the corner of Virginia and Hale Streets. Charleston is in desperate need of more interesting architecture. Here, study the most architecturally interesting city in America.

There is a tiny town in central France, a place I once called home. It’s name is Issoire, deep in le massif central, the central mountains of France. It’s a region that resembles in several dear ways these lovely Appalachian Mountains in West Virginia. Except for the dormant volcanoes! And certainly except for the wine. Mon cher! But for a very few notable exceptions, West Virginia has (excuse my French) vin horrible. Plonk, I believe, is what Americans call it. Sorry, but your terrior is — shall we be polite? — off. I have somewhat enjoyed the cabernet sauvignon of Fisher Ridge Wines, grown on a hillside in rural Putnam County. By a dentist! It stayed in my mouth not down the drain, passing my first test of non-plonk. But enough about me. I have come to West Virginia to work and to write. Instead of writing about the mountains (doesn’t everyone always write about the mountains of the Mountain State– banal!), I humbly offer this blog of my urban experiences downtown in the great state of West “Par Dieu” Virginia!

There is a tiny town in central France, a place I once called home. It’s name is Issoire, deep in le massif central, the central mountains of France. It’s a region that resembles in several dear ways these lovely Appalachian Mountains in West Virginia. Except for the dormant volcanoes! And certainly except for the wine. Mon cher! But for a very few notable exceptions, West Virginia has (excuse my French) vin horrible. Plonk, I believe, is what Americans call it. Sorry, but your terrior is — shall we be polite? — off. I have somewhat enjoyed the cabernet sauvignon of Fisher Ridge Wines, grown on a hillside in rural Putnam County. By a dentist! It stayed in my mouth not down the drain, passing my first test of non-plonk. But enough about me. I have come to West Virginia to work and to write. Instead of writing about the mountains (doesn’t everyone always write about the mountains of the Mountain State– banal!), I humbly offer this blog of my urban experiences downtown in the great state of West “Par Dieu” Virginia!