With a moniker like Lost Isle, we could only imagine what we would find there. A name laden with intrigue primed us for adventure. Would it be hidden in a garden dense with tropical foliage? Would there be sand? A kitschy Pirates of the Caribbeanish set interpretation?
All we knew was that we would be dining outdoors, and we had to get there early because the restaurant doesn’t take reservations.
It was the last day of my visit to Charleston, SC where my longtime friend, Kamal, lives. That morning, his friend insisted we cancel our dinner reservation in favor of a trip out to Johns Island to check out Lost Isle. Word of it was spreading, he said, drawing people like ants on a potato chip, and we shouldn’t miss it, especially with good weather in the forecast. Lines start forming before it opens at 5 PM, he told us more than once. Don’t be late!
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We blew that advice. Without traffic, the ride from Kamal’s Charleston neighborhood might take 15-20 minutes. On that gorgeous Saturday evening, people were on the road, going places, and we didn’t know that cell and wifi coverage on Johns Island is spotty. As we crossed the bridge over the Ashley River from Charleston towards the island, our driver’s rideshare app started acting up like a defiant toddler. No! I won’t stop twirling the little circley thing! No! I refuse to give you any more directions!
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