There are some friendships that survive on late-night texts and blurry FaceTime calls. Ours survives on something stronger; monthly meetups, chosen halfway between Asheville and Charlotte. We’ve sworn to never to let the distance of I-85 dim our glow, and with that, the foothills rise just enough to feel like a pause button.

This month, it wasn’t just a meetup, it was a recovery mission. In what we are calling "The Paul Purge," Mia had been unceremoniously dumped by her long-term boyfriend Paul, who once told me he "didn’t really "get" Casablanca." When she called me, I knew metaphorical spirits would be too dull to ease the pain. We needed something extraordinary for this one. Something smooth, potent, and handcrafted. The kind of place where the stain Paul left can be washed away – here’s looking at you, kid.

So, we drove; me from the west, her from the southeast, toward Kings Mountain. It’s a town that once proudly voted itself dry in 1874 (bold move, Kings Mountain), but now it’s home to one of the most charming, trailblazing craft distilleries in the state. Third legal one in North Carolina, in fact. Our kind of rebellious.

Something Spirited This Way Comes

Southern Artisan Spirits sits there like a secret waiting to be told. Once a frontier for prohibition, now a sanctuary of small-batch brilliance, it’s a family-run distillery that doesn’t just craft gin, it revives it. Revives it the way we were hoping this weekend might revive Mia.

The moment we stepped into the tasting room, we knew this wasn’t going to be a typical "sip and smile" spot. The cocktail list read like a love letter to flavor, and not the clingy kind. There was a depth to everything: the scent of citrus zest and oak barrels, the low thrum of something soulful in the air, the unmistakable atmosphere of a place that takes its craft seriously.

The bartender, trained under cocktail legend Bob Peters, mixed each drink with the confidence of someone who understands the art behind the pour. Every element had purpose. Nothing was rushed. We slid into our bar stools with the kind of unspoken relief that only comes after a hard week and a long drive.

Mia raised her Turning Point Sour (aptly named for her situation) – a bright, citrusy punch of rye, lemon, and cane – and gave me that look she always gives when she’s starting to feel like herself again. I started with the In Bloom, and its elderflower foam and lavender syrup tasted like spring had been distilled and crowned with lemon.

The Break-Up Shrimp

We didn’t mean to order the whole menu. It just sort of… happened. One small plate led to another, and before we knew it, we were knee-deep in crispy Brussels sprouts slicked with bacon onion jam and a tang that lingered just enough to make you want more.

"This," Mia said, between bites, "is what I wish texting him had felt like."

I nearly choked laughing. The Bang Bang Shrimp hit the table just as she launched into the story of her "last official date" (spoiler: it involved a long explanation of why crypto is in fact a "hobby"). As she dipped a shrimp in the house-made sauce, she mused, "You know, I’d rather be in love with this meal. Bang Bang Shrimp never used my decorative hand towel to kill a bug."

We ordered mains like we were ordering resolutions. Mia chose Jimmy’s Chicken, tender thighs tucked into a bed of gravy and seasonal vegetables that reminded her of the Sundays her grandmother used to cook in Atlanta. "This feels like something that’s been missing," she said, not just about the food. I went for the Smoking Gun, a pork shank cloaked in rich stew and puff pastry that practically fell apart under my fork. We ate slowly, our conversation shifting from lighthearted gossip to deeper things you tend to forget about; how long healing actually takes, what forgiveness really looks like, and how strange it feels to start over in your late twenties, not because you want to, but because you have to.

"Is it weird to miss the routine more than the person?" she asked, half-laughing, half-serious. The food grounded us in these moments of revelation. Each forkful felt like the kitchen had eavesdropped on our conversation and decided to nourish exactly what was broken. By the time our plates were clean, we felt like we’d shed something. Not the pain exactly, but maybe the sharpness of it.

The food here isn’t just sustenance. It’s a story. Chef Daniel Brock’s approach is a kind of culinary continuation of what Southern Artisan Spirits does behind the bar; elevate the familiar, honor the roots, and never cut corners. His dishes, like their spirits, are layered, modern takes on traditional comfort, each one whispering something old and shouting something new.

Buzzed and Braver

By our third round of drinks, the lighting felt warmer, the music richer, and our shoulders noticeably lower. Mia tried the Buzz Bait, and she said, "You know, he never understood me." There was something in the honeycomb-washed rye and smoked bitters that reminded her of who she was before she’d let someone else’s indecision take up space in her heart. I went adventurous with the Blackberry Basil Smash, a mix of berries, citrus agave, and enough herbal brightness to feel like a garden in a glass.

We talked about everything: the things we thought we wanted and the things we were finally ready to admit we deserved. Between shared bites and swapped sips, it dawned on us that we are never too old to reinvent ourselves. The starry-eyed selves that we were when we first met in college are not gone but carried inside of us, ready to take on the world. Sometimes, all it takes is a new place like this one to make you realize it.

Somewhere between dessert (yes, we split the Chocolate Dreams, and yes, it was) and our last toast, the room blurred into warmth and color. We weren’t mourning anything anymore. We were celebrating.

As the night softened, we bought a bottle of Cardinal Barrel Rested Gin to take home, like bottling a memory, sealing the night with a cork and a wish to come back again.

"You know that gin was considered medicinal?" I said to Mia. "It treated stomach aches. But I think you could probably switch out the word stomach for heart and get away with it." But in the end, it wasn’t just about the gin. It was about what the place gave us: a pause, a palate, and a chance to feel whole again. Our medicine was this connection that Southern Artisan Spirits offered us. Distilling moments for two women with a lot to say, a little to cry about, and everything to toast to; it was exactly where we needed to be.