From Farm Fare to Five-Star Food: Kiawah, South Carolina Will Fill You Up

Farm-to-table is too often a cliché, a conceit of city restaurants far removed from agricultural sources. But here on Johns Island, pickup trucks outnumber sedans. Just miles from Charleston, South Carolina, John's Island is home to numerous farms. And where there are farmers, enthusiastic food lovers follow.

The restaurants of John's Island and Legare Farms Fall Harvest

In November, the Legare Farms Fall Harvest brings together many fine chefs (who are also customers) and more than 200 hungry folks. Legare Farms, Helen Legare, explains, is a ninth generation family that raises hormone- and antibiotic-free cows, pigs and chickens and more than 60 varieties of vegetables.

It's unseasonably chilly this year, but the cold hasn't kept people away—the event is sold out. Understandably -— it's a heck of a value.

At $50 a ticket, no one is getting rich, says Legare with a laugh.

The chefs donate their time and creativity; Legare donates the produce and the meat. Entire neighborhoods attend and folks from surrounding communities.

We arrive at the farm late in the afternoon. I spy a dozen pink, green and brown eggs and quickly fish out $3.

They were laid an hour ago, Legare says, handing us our tickets.

A fiddle player and a fire are already in full swing. As the sun sets, the crowd moves toward the white dining tent. Diners jockey for the spots closest to the heat lamps —- not impolitely, of course; this is, after all, the South, just a stone's throw from the city that tops many polls as the most hospitable in the U.S.

I am surprised to see real glasses, silverware and linens. It's not easy creating an upscale dining experience under these circumstances, but (baseball!) hats off to Legare and company.

Ten chefs, including the award-winning Fred Neuville of Fat Hen and Mike Latta of Fig, are dishing up vittles tonight. There's a companionable bustle as plates are filled, followed by a hush as plates are cleaned. Lots of tasting notes are shared among both friends and strangers.

We queue at the Wild Olives Restaurant table. Chef Jacques Larson apologizes for the empty pan.

Come back in eight minutes, he says, for his "epic" risotto.

His boast is for real: the risotto is deliriously creamy, mounded with pulled pork and a scattering of Sicilian bread crumbs. I'm not ashamed to say we hung close to the table for seconds.

Other standouts were the braised oxtail and sweet potato hash with onion marmalade from Chef John Ondo of Lana Restaurant; Chef Val Domingo's collards from J. Paulz Restaurant; Neuville's barbeque pork atop a fat, sweet biscuit heaped with macaroni and cheese; and the eggplant and black bean tacos with queso fresco and bacon slaw from Craig and Stephanie Bente at Caliente Lowcountry Restaurant. Legare say Latta’s hogshead soup was her favorite, but she also really enjoyed the braised pork belly from Middleton Place restaurant.

That night, as I drift to sleep, I think, "May I die eating."

The Sanctuary at Kiawah Island

Fortunately, my gluttony hasn't killed me. Rather, I awake, ravenous.

But first, there is the glorious view from our two-bedroom villa at The Sanctuary at Kiawah Island Golf Resort . Kiawah is derived from the Indians who lived in the area in the 1600s, hunting and fishing on the 10,000-acre maritime forested island. The 10-mile beach, one of America’s finest is a nesting ground for loggerhead turtles and home to egrets. We walk for an hour along the wide, windswept beach, encountering few humans (this is off-season), but finding whole sand dollars, horseshoe crabs and starfish in the wet-packed gray sand.

Then we head to Newton Farms, a gourmet grocery store on the island, to stock up on provisions—wine, bread, cheese, fruit.

Lucky me: I've got an appointment at The Sanctuary's Mobil Five Star Spa, for their signature treatment, the body 'wrapture'. I loll in the sauna, then the hot tub before Maggie, the therapist, plucks me from the locker room. The treatment begins with a nurturing warm grain and herb-filled wrap which precedes the massage. The long drive from Atlanta and the resulting indignities on my middle-aged body mean I have been steadily popping ibuprofen. Maggie begins kneading the knotted spots in my neck, shoulders and lower back. Relaxation and relief visit my torso.

My eyelids are heavy, I think, "May I die on a massage table."

I don't die; rather, I am revived -— to eat again.

Tonight we’ve got a reservation at The Ocean Room, the hotel's elegant steakhouse. Our server Stewart produces two 'purse stools' for our handbags as we settle in to review the autumn menu. Chilled Maine lobster and Roxbury russet apples sit on a tangy puddle of Greek yogurt tinted green with celery; succulent Sunburst Farms rainbow trout is sautéed with Benton's bacon, baby potatoes and radishes in maple beurre blanc and pear salad with arugula, Roquefort, hazelnuts and pomegranate vinaigrette. But the meal's real star is the dry-aged ribeye presented in a mini Dutch oven with a Flintstones-sized bone still attached.

Twenty-four inches, says Stewart of the bone's length.

I don't know if size matters, but dry-aging concentrates the flavor of the steak which is fired in an oven heated to 1800 degrees. A side of foraged mushrooms in bordelaise sauce is a fine accompaniment. We end the meal with a walnut-crust goat cheesecake with walnut crust drizzled with huckleberry sauce and a caramel apple millefeuille with salted caramel mousse, poached honeycrisp apples and roasted South Carolina peanuts.

Sweet dreams are made of this.

We putter around the property the next day, walk the beach and lunch at Rosebank Farms Café at Bohicket Marina on Seabrook Island. It’s a gorgeous day, so we opt to eat outside, overlooking marsh, our faces turned to the sun. Spicy bloody Marys are in order, as is a pimiento cheese sandwich with apple smoked bacon served with sugar dusted sweet potato chips,;a bowl of tomato bisque topped with blue crab meat and fried catfish with tartar sauce; butter beans, fried okra and Carolina red rice.

Reading and napping are the appropriate late afternoon activities.

For our final night, we are dining at The Atlantic Room at the Ocean Course, the resort's premier seafood restaurant. In the golden glow of a winter sunset—the sweeping views remind me of Scottish links -— we are welcomed with a glass of cava. I have my heart set on the Cherry Point seafood platter from nearby Wadmalaw Island. But our server Sarah says it's not available.

When the fishermen don’t get lucky, neither do we.

So we close our menus and surrender ourselves to the chef. This turns out to be a smart decision.

Our first course is a chilled seafood plate with PEI oysters, the season's first stone crabs claws, and a shrimp cocktail. Next are seared scallops with fire roasted corn, sunchoke puree and arugula pesto paired with a Pierpon soave. Roderer Estate brut rose is the perfect foil to a revelatory yard egg ravioli with spinach and duck confit. Seared tuna and foie gras plated over grits with root vegetables marries well with a Barbera d'Asti. And Brussels sprouts with bacon gnocchi. For dessert, there's a warm white chocolate bread pudding and a blueberry buckle.

The beach beckons for a post-dinner stroll. Stars -— we spy the Big Dipper -— are scattered across the inky sky.

Again it is morning and time to go.

As we pack up our uneaten food stuffs for the ride home, I lament the shortness of our visit.

I think you ought to leave something undone on every trip, says Erin.

In this case, it is the button on my jeans.