Flavor Therapy

A comfort food guide to the Port City

By Fanny Slater

Sure, gratitude journaling is great—but have you tried letting your wife fork-feed you an unruly pile of French fries soaked in beer cheese?

Self-care comes in many forms.

I’m sure you eat kale and quinoa like a good citizen, but I’m also certain you have a guilty pleasure that tastes like home, and if I had to guess, is tied to your childhood—a simpler time before Duke Energy bills and assertive-yet-people-pleasing emails to your boss. But even if your feel-good food doesn’t spark nostalgia, I imagine the solace is just as real.

I’ve lived a lot of lives in Wilmington. Complete unknown. Local foodie who hit it big on Rachael Ray. Cookbook author who landed a gig on Food Network. Married, divorced, married again. Downtown party girl turned sobriety spokesperson (five years this February, baby!). 

But through it all, one constant has remained: the local dishes listed below that nourish me to my core.

May this guide lead you to a hug in the form of queso, a pat on the back disguised as an impossibly delicate chicken biscuit, and an unctuous, yet airy square-cut Sicilian pizza that whispers, “you can relax now.”

Welcome to my personal, totally subjective collection of Wilmington comfort food.

Seabird: Fried Chicken Biscuit

I’ve said it 27 times and I’ll say it again. Dean Neff and Lydia Clopton are Wilmington’s chef-and-pastry power couple. And if you only know Seabird for the oysters, you’re missing out on one of Wilmington’s best-kept brunchtime secrets.

As a teenager in Raleigh, I would stay up with friends until the sun came out and Bojangles opened its doors—thus carving a Cajun filet biscuit into my memory as a timeless symbol of comfort. 

Seabird’s interpretation is far from fast food, but it still transports me backwards in time. Think: thigh meat, juicy to a near-illegal degree, wrapped in a crackly cloak of salt and spices, perched on a plush pillow of Duke’s mayo, draped with pimento cheese, briny pickles, and a glossy drizzle of thick, sticky sorghum lacquer—all nestled inside a hearty, buttery handmade biscuit.

To put it simply: a masterpiece. 

Kapow: Pad Thai

When my taste buds start plotting an escapade to tangy, sweet and sour noodles with crisp bean sprouts, Kapow inevitably becomes the final destination. The restaurant’s Thai, Vietnamese, and Laotian cuisine is authentic on every level, and they manage to turn mundane pad Thai into something ritualistic. The dish may seem safe on a bold menu, but for me, it’s a comfort anthem. 

My college roommate had a pad Thai obsession that, at the time, I didn't share. She was addicted to the cozy magic of rice noodles and roasted peanuts, and we practically kept the adjacent Asian fusion café in business. Slowly, over time, we drifted apart—and before I realized it, my palate started to crave what she'd been onto all along.

Kapow’s rendition is fiery, limey, tamarind-forward, and made by hands with real roots in the cuisine.

Comfort with a passport. Chopsticks, please.

Rebellion: Mornay Mac and Cheese

Look, I don't need a prose-y preamble for mac and cheese because it’s comfort food royalty. Period. But I will say this: Before I was a public advocate for sobriety, I was a notorious downtown bar rat of no small renown. And though Rebellion parades a dizzying lineup of bourbons and whiskeys, I frequented the Front Street tavern for a different kind of intoxication: the mac and cheese.

But this is no careless mash of elbow noodles and Velveeta conjured for a tipsy diner. Behind Rebellion’s tough, tattooed-motorcycle exterior lies the precision of a five-star chef, and it shows in every bite. Penne swirls through a sinfully silky Mornay sauce, punctuated by scallions scattered like confetti. Luxurious yet unpretentious. Rich, but never heavy. A dish relegated to the “sides” section—though a fried chicken and bacon version lurks under shared plates—yet it demands its own page. And a standing ovation.

It’s just “mac and cheese from a bar,” you say? Go see for yourself.

True Blue: Crab Cake

Not to name drop, but I once made crab cakes for Rachael Ray and Shark Tank's Lori Greiner on national television. The dish has always been my quintessential soul food—a taste of my dad’s kitchen: poignant, lemony, and unpretentious. In a coastal town where every menu offers crab cakes but exceptional ones are rare—True Blue delivers every damn time.

From Wagyu and USDA Prime beef to a dazzling raw bar, the bistro-slash-butcher counter has plenty to brag about—but the plump, lofty, expertly seared crab cakes? I’d say that’s what’s paying the rent.

If you're imagining flat little deep-fried patties, stop it right now. We’re talking tall, meaty towers of pure jumbo lump blue crab, lightly kissed golden brown, crisp on the outside, silky on the inside, and bound ever so subtly with mayonnaise, delicate herbs, and breadcrumbs. A heady bouquet of sea brine, butter, and spices.

For me, it’s nostalgia, mastery, and comfort wrapped in one, and True Blue might as well have invented the phrase: no filler.

CheeseSmith: Buffalo Baby and Smith Fries

At the time I showcased CheeseSmith's Buffalo Baby sandwich on Food Network's popular series Best Thing I Ever Ate, the whole operation was still on wheels. Now it's a full-blown brick-and-mortar with multiple trendy locations and a fan base spanning coast to coast.

The messy handheld—spicy chicken, creamy Havarti, pickled veggie slaw, plus garlicky ranch—will always hold a special place in my heart. But on this comfort food tour: your next stop is CheeseSmith’s beer cheese fries.

I invite you to unapologetically dive in via finger, fork, or face to the golden-brown, piled-high mountain of skinny fries, heaped with sharp, velvety ale-perfumed cheese sauce, crowned with crunchy scallions. Non-drinkers like me, fear not—the booze cooks out, the hop-forward flavor stays intact. They even have a short but sweet curated lineup of NA brews to wash it all down.

Pro tip: add pickled jalapeños for a puckery zip.

Island Burger & Bites: Smash Burger

If one of the best meals of your existence on earth hasn’t emerged from an unassuming gas station, what are you even doing?

Back in 2017—and with zero culinary experience—the Singh family added a small grill to the Island Kwik Mart in Carolina Beach and unintentionally ignited a Port City legend. Burgers are comfort food by default, but add crispy, caramelized edges, the smoky scent of a flattop, a plush bakery bun, and the euphoria of devouring it right in your car? Houston, I think we’ve got nirvana. Island’s smash burger crackles with every bite, juices pool, and the griddle’s charred aroma lingers long after the foil-wrapped sandwich disappears.

By 2025, the Singhs had outgrown their humble fuel-shop beginnings and now run Island Burger as a proper eat-in restaurant. I was lucky enough to experience the gem in its gas station glory days, and those memories serve as a permanent reminder that great food doesn’t need a tablecloth.

Brooklyn Pizza Co: Grandma Sicilian Pie

Some people say that even bad pizza is good pizza. Those people are wrong.

Sure, a Totino's hits in a pinch when you only have three dollars, but for the real deal, I’m sending you to Brooklyn Pizza. Their massive, thin-crust, NY-style marvels boast a respected reputation around town—but regulars know that the Sicilian "AKA Grandma" Pie is where it's at.

The pizzas that defined my childhood were humble squares with thick, yielding crusts smothered in chunky, vibrant tomato sauce. Brooklyn’s Grandma Pie captures that same spirit: hearty dough layered with ethereal, melt-in-your-mouth, in-house fresh mozzarella, juicy plum tomatoes, and fragrant ribbons of basil. Each slice is a tender nod to the past, even if you grew up in Raleigh, not Sicily.

These bubbling beauties take a little extra time in the oven, but the payoff is bliss, confirming that comfort food thrives on patience, quality, and, of course, garlic.

Zocalo: Queso and Totopos (the large)

In high school, I had a friend who shared my fixation for chips and queso. When the final bell would ring, we’d sprint to the nearby Mexican restaurant, claim our own personal takeout orders, and plop down in front of Dawson’s Creek. Once upon a time, the bottom of her TV tray fell out, putting an end to her appetizer and forcing me to share mine.

Lesson learned: always order the large (and maybe a backup). At Zócalo, a modern Mexican eatery I’ll forever champion for the best totopos and queso in Wilmington, that advice couldn’t be more relevant.

The chips arrive thick, golden, and sturdy—each a handmade corn tortilla cratered with airy pockets, ideal for cradling smoky, chili-laced queso. In other words: the ultimate cheese trappers.

At one point, my wife and I were lucky enough to live within walking distance of Zócalo. In our sweatpants, we’d shuffle over and sink into an oversized booth—Wordle battles at the ready, elbows brushing as we vied for the last gooey swipe. Eventually, we graduated to the large.

I believe in couples therapy, but I believe in large queso more.