One is in front of a building that belonged to his old friend, now dead, and another spot is in front of one of his first houses here, back when this upscale area was a mixture of eccentric bohemians, conservative members of South Carolina’s grand families, and the African American workers whose culture they all drew from. “Oh hell, let’s just park here and hope the guard is asleep in the booth,” Roberts said, pulling into a private lot. “We aren’t going to be more than an hour anyway.” Roberts peeled his long body out of the car and went around to the trunk. Though Roberts is in his mid-sixties, his Dennis the Menace–worthy flop of silver hair, faded jeans, and heavy work boots makes him look like a much younger man. He speaks in a booming voice that quickly fills any space he occupies with a mixture of personal tales (“I once drove mangoes cross-country in a big rig through here!”), arcane local history, and a passionate diatribe for what he loves, which is the traditional food of the Deep South and America.
