It’s Still Old Charlotte At Laurel Market

A long line is usually a deterrent. At this bodega, it’s part of the allure. It’s typically a ragtag crew: stragglers, churchgoers, strollers, freshly licensed teens. Above is a sign that reads “Laurel Market: Deli, Sundries, Wine, Beer.” It’s a paradoxical sight: a humble neighborhood market at 114 Cherokee Road in affluent Eastover, with a shack-like frame and an open sign hanging askew. Who even bears the burden of a line anymore, with our self-checkouts and delivery apps?

The customers of Laurel Market do—mainly for the deli sandwiches. “There’s always a good smell in here,” says owner Susan Hardman. “If you notice, in certain places, there are no smells anymore.” But here, aromas of toasty golden bread and flat-top bacon waft through the space. 

Susan, 55, has worked at Laurel Market for more than 30 years, flexing her “muscle memory of flavors,” alongside her dad and co-owner Ronald Hardman, a Charlotte teacher-turned-small-business-owner. He’s 86 now and still buys the bagels for the deli. She still arrives before dawn  to fill catering orders. Laurel Market sells more than four dozen sandwich varieties, most of which cost less than $12, from a jam-packed Market Club to the chipotle-heavy Mercado. Susan’s recent creation is a breakfast special, smothered and sticky with fig jam, Neese’s Sausage, Gruyere, and arugula.

Co-owner Susan Hardman greets a customer.

“If the sandwich is not layered up properly, my brain splits,” she says. “I need the best mayonnaise, Dijon, the parsley has to be flat-leaf.” But the sandwich assembly system itself is less streamlined, as a single staff member—for the most part—takes the order, makes the sandwich, calls out the name. Somehow, it works. 

“It’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?” Susan asks. But Martin Pusser, the market’s wine director, believes quality is Laurel’s main asset. Martin stocks organic, small-production wines but doesn’t make a big deal of it, in keeping with the humble market. He describes himself as an “undercover organic guy.”

“It’s old-fashioned hospitality … dripping with our personalities,” he says. High-end tinned tuna called Fishwife—ethically sourced fish packed in spicy olive oil that sells for more than $10 per tin—landed on shelves per the request of a regular. Refrigerators filled with craft beer and colorful kombucha reflect Susan’s desire for natural and local products. Small-production, “undercover organic” wines showcase Martin’s tenure in Asheville’s farm-to-table scene. Precariously placed candy bins appease the kids. Coffee is always brewed and ready to be pumped into disposable cups.

The Italian Classic sandwich

Customers keep coming back, not just for the sandwiches, but to feel a part of something, to feel pivotal to a place’s comings and goings.

The self-titled “Coffee Club” is a group of prominent lawyers, surgeons, and semi-retired chaps who converse over coffee at Laurel every morning. On occasion, they start brewing coffee as the real staff begins opening duties. Martin joins them sometimes; they chat about the Allman Brothers, The Who, and Bob Dylan. “You can’t go into a corporate store and get that greeting,” Martin says.

Laurel Market’s “Coffee Club”, which includes (left to right) Harold Howe, Boyd Cordell, Bill Scott, and John Wester.

Local artist Eric Sparrow has frequented Laurel’s front patio, with its heavily occupied benches, for six years now. “When I first quit drinking, I came up here to meet my first sponsor,” he says. His sober group met regularly on the benches.  

That’s Laurel Market’s thing: It’s for the Coffee Club guys and the tinned-fish girls. The Myers Park loyalists, the sober crowd, the booze enthusiasts, and the post-run crew, too.

This neighborly communion reminds Martin of “Old Charlotte.” By his definition, it’s a town where you knew your neighbor, like back when he and Susan knew each other as teens, when they referred to Martin’s house as “The Aquarium.” “We drank like fish,” he says. It’s no wonder he ended up in wine.

Martin Pusser, Laurel Market’s wine director.

While Laurel Market may still feel like Old Charlotte, one reality looms: New Charlotte. Susan expects commercial developers to eventually buy and raze the block, and she says she’ll find a new location when the time comes. When the topic arises, Susan sits back in her chair and smiles. She’s got nothing to prove—just orders to fill and sandwiches to construct. “People know me. I know them,” she says. “And it’s fun.”