My best friend is small-minded – literally, her dome is the size of my left boob (which we’ll get to later) therefore I call her a tithead. Despite the fact that she is a well-traveled business ace, “TH #1” considers my beloved home of North Carolina to be like something out of The Help or worse, Deliverance.
I hate to break it to my kinfolk up north, but as much as I miss the hobos spitting on my Torys on the B/D/F/V , endless gaggle of tools fist-pumping tools, and drinks that cost 1/2 my rent, central North Carolina is the greatest place for a youngin’ to live since Daddy Warbucks’ sterling palace of ginger refuge.
Beezus and Marjorie really enjoy bicycles and baguettes and doing the typy typ “itinerary activity feel important touristy thing” when they go places, but I keep it real. Babygirl squires her guests around town for fun and ease, not the Guinness world record of hipster shiz in one day. We will shop, eat, booze, do something outside, booze, and depending on the season, cover ourselves in self-tanner and/or baby oil, lounge by my pool and most likely yell at kids for cannon-balling all over my Vanity Fair.
Here’s where we might go:
Only for apps and a drink at the bar. Their hushpuppies and fried pimento cheese balls will haunt your soul. The bartenders are so friendly they remind me of fluffy, jolly labs you want to pet instead of pay.
Obvi where Obama retreated for a PBR while politicin’ his way around the most legit hot button swing state. Also, my boss took me here on my first day as a welcome to Raleighwood. Clearly these two events mark this joint as a historic landmark of fostering successful and charismatic ballers.
I’ve frequented quite a few Lilly joints in my day, but this is far and away the most beautifully curated collection I’ve seen in a hot minute. It almost makes me want to dye my hair blonde…almost.
The Dorrian’s of the Triangle. Just far enough away from the intensity of the Glenwood bar scene. Excellent cougar-watching and preppy man-trapping. Their “Irish Trashcan” shots will knock your Sperrys off.
Duke is full of liars and smartypants douchers, but this garden is romantical, isolated, and has a very Central Park element to it. Really cute tots run amuck with their DILFS in tow.
Sit outside for diverse people-watching on Main. Everyone seems to bring their dog, its like a hippie Westminster for Christsake. Their food is jaw-droppingly excellent with just the right selection of Hoppy IPAs on tap.
We give this place a copious amount of shout-outs because it is simply the best, any meal, any day. I would also like to note that I have been quietly stalking and charting my course to make one of their hosts my future gay sidekick/husband. And yes, it all started when he gave me an Ann Margret reference upon our first meeting. I’ll get you one day!!
Strongly suggest posting up in the outdoor seating area EARLY in the night when UNC plays the University of New Jersey at Durham, a.k.a Duke. You’ll have the best access to loonybins dangling from the streetlamps and the stampede on Franklin St. if Carolina wins.
I somehow end up driving to this mecca of pleasantness every damn Sunday to pick up my NYT, sit outside among the goyim and creep behind my oversized sunglasses at the brides-to-be getting tours of the stunning grounds. Even their cows are fancy.
Git ‘er done.