Memphis Soul

I am sitting in a restaurant in Memphis, Tennessee called McEwan’s, and I am laughing wholeheartedly at a joke the owner is telling. I can barely catch my breath, grinning from a mix of fresh southern air and warm southern charm. I inhale deeply, lungs filling with the rich scents of rosemary and something juicy roasting in the kitchen.
I drove out to Memphis from New Hampshire with two girlfriends, snaking through the Appalachians and the Smokies, looking for an adventure. We left New England shivering in a spring snowstorm and watched snow dissolve into dogwood blossoms along back roads and I-40W.
Now us country gals have hit the city, and are enjoying some of the South’s famous hospitality. The owner of McEwan’s has been making his nightly rounds from table to table, and something in our laughter, or maybe our praise of the appetizers, has inspired his generosity. He has his chef bring us desserts. He’s giving us tickets for tomorrow night’s Memphis Reds game. And he is writing a list of restaurants we absolutely must visit before leaving Memphis.
“You can’t leave Memphis without eating real soul food,” he tells us, “I just won’t allow it.” He breaks the list up by cuisine. We cannot believe our luck.
The next day, after an emotional morning at the Civil Rights Museum, we need lunch.
We look at our local’s list, pick a soul food restaurant called Alcenia’s, and begin driving toward a tough section of town. Storefronts are boarded up, graffiti streaks over broken windows and onto building facades. We find Alcenia’s under the overpass of I-40, and wonder if this is a good idea. But adventure never comes without risk, so we head in.
The moment we open the door, I know we’ve made the right decision. Warm red walls covered in folk art portraits greet us immediately. I can hear Motown playing, lots of laughter, and the sweet sizzle of the griddle. Striding right toward me is the owner (as we find out later), BJ, and she is wrapped in scarves and bangles. “Hello, baby!!” She exclaims to me, grabs me up in her arms, and plants a kiss right on me. After that, I know I’m home. I eat more fried catfish than any New Englander, I’m sure. Fried pickles. Okra. Collards. Peach pie. I am in heaven under the overpass of I-40, eating BJ’s soulful cooking. It is perfection. That night, sitting behind home plate at the baseball game, I will look up into the night’s sky and thank the stars, and know I owe it all to the serendipity of travel and the magic of Memphis.