Atlanta, Georgia On My Mind

No where in the cosmopolitan south can one chow down on shrimp and grits and get a fresh cut 24 hours a day but in the ATL. Yes sir, yes ma’am, that’s the kind of flavor I’m talking about – well seasoned southern hospitality. On the regular, black-owned restaurants like Landon’s, (the owner is the former Executive Chef to the Bishop Eddie Long estate) in the Cascade Corridor and Paschal’s at Castlebury turn up the heat and rock the pickiest palates.

BLAME IT ON THE ALCOHOL
Of course, the right ambience and alcohol is everything and amazingly, Moet and Chandon can be copped at an Atlanta University Center Chevron gas station for $44. I guess those Spelman girls and Morehouse boys can’t get enough and J. Roget certainly won’t do for their discerning champagne tastes. When I spotted a young African-American man with a gun holster strapped to his saggy pants at the same hood-based gas station late one night, my mouth flew wide open. Yepper pepper, state law sanctions “open carry” with a permit.

GEORGIA PEEPS
Georgia’s largest peach of a city, flanked by rolling hills and high rise homes, combines a population of buttermilk country bumpkins and a bursting at the seams bourgeoisie. As a former Houstonian and current Atlantian peeped, new Mayor Kasim Reed, who told it like it is at Clark University’s commencement, could be the city’s last colored mayor if black flight to outlining areas and urbanism’s appeal to whites continues to mark a new trend. I doubt if the sudden incursion will dent the African-American flock rate, though.

STUCK LIKE a THROWBACK CHUCK
Although I missed hopping a ride on MARTA (‘Moving African-Americans rapidly through Atlanta’) and experiencing the famous butt clap where girls with names like Leilani and Frosty perform at Magic City, fashion marching men in cropped pants and miniskirts provided suitable entertainment. Plus, as much as it is a mecca for all things hip and gay, Atlanta is also home to black folks stuck in a soulful strut.

So much for cellular technology’s overrated GPS such that I was forced to make a call to a Georgian transplant to pinpoint Gladys Knight’s and Ron Winans’ Chicken and Waffles’ Lithonia location. While enduring what felt like an hour wait, I was grateful my famished appetite was diverted by two old throwbacks, one decked out in a peach ensemble with matching leather lace-ups and another in shiny lilac gators.

Had it not been for these colorful characters, straight outta Hustlersville, I would’ve been denied the “Midnight Train,” a plate of plump wings and a buttery waffle drenched with pecans because the rest of my crew was ready to bail for Chick-Fil-A.