Feature: Supper by the Sea

Printer-friendly version

Bearing north along the Intracoastal Waterway from Wild Dunes, running at about 20 knots—or just long enough that the well-manicured lawns of picturesque Isle of Palms have slipped from memory—rests a tiny spit of sand and shell with a big reputation for homegrown hospitality. Part cookhouse, bunkhouse, and outhouse, Moïse Island is “that place”—the one that needs no occasion, no ceremony save an idle afternoon and a dozen or so crabs on ice.

Presiding over this isle of seagrass and tidal creeks, steaming cookpots and seafaring friends old and new, is longtime sportsman and raconteur Ben Moïse. A Gloria Cubano cigar clenched between his teeth, he extends his hand and a heartfelt “Welcome!” to any disembarking guests. And that’s exactly how they feel.

What has come to be known as Moïse Island was formed during the 1920s and ’30s as a result of the outfall of a dredging project by the Army Corps of Engineers. It then became the property of the Drew family, livestock breeders and owners of the cattle farm at Driftwood Plantation, and sat uninhabited for decades. “In my previous incarnation as a game warden with the Department of Natural Resources, I used to camp here because of its location,” says Moïse, pointing through the foliage to the acres of surrounding wetlands while keeping watch on a simmering pot of his legendary stew. He adds a generous handful of Old Bay seasoning, along with halved cobs of sweet corn. “This was my office, and I would stay out here, sometimes for days. Then in 1985 I was able to buy the island from the Drew family.” Ben pauses, and says almost reverently, “We agreed on the exorbitant price of $500.”

When Moïse isn’t tying up on his beloved island, he and fellow DNR retiree John LaRoche travel the country doing Lowcountry “cooks,” their signature dish a stew originally made famous by residents of the small community of Frogmore in Beaufort. They developed this simple but classic regional dish of sweet corn, fresh local shrimp, and sausage. Except that today’s preparation is more of a Sunday-for-company version: “This recipe was given to me by Senator James Waddell, Jr., who hails from Beaufort,” says Moïse. “His only request was that no potatoes of any kind be added to the pot if it is to be called Frogmore Stew.” As if on cue, Moïse tosses a handful of nice, fat crawdads into the mix, as well as a dozen or so blue crabs.

In the few minutes he has to spare before it’s time to add the shrimp, Moïse and his wife Anne offer some of their novice guests (there aren’t many!) a quick tour of the island, setting out along the powder-grey path of crushed oyster shell from parties past. He begins with the rustic bunkhouse, a simple utilitarian structure which houses beds, fishing tackle, and various other odds and ends. Stepping onto the screened porch that surrounds part of the building, Moïse points out a comfortable-looking wooden deck chair where, rumor has it, the celebrated host has been known to settle in for the night. Today he advises solemnly: “Just be careful of that chair. If you sit in it, you may not want to get up.”

From there, it’s on to the main room of the cookhouse, a large weathered wooden structure much like an open-air cabin, its rafters festooned with a multitude of hats left by the island’s many visitors. Making his way over to the table—piled end to end with such Lowcountry favorites as pickled shrimp, boiled peanuts, and homemade coleslaw—Moïse stops to retrieve the oyster shell offered to him by Belle, his Boykin spaniel. He pitches it in the direction of the bunkhouse, and she sets out to retrieve it. Through the trees appears a graceful yellow sloop, sails trimmed, making its way up the Intracoastal. Ben follows the yacht with his gaze. “I see boaters going up and down the waterway all day long looking for that special place,” he says. “And here I am, standing on mine.”