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| - Huxley and I tuckered in, situating ourselves cross-splayed at one of the dark-wood tables lining the near wall of Soul's narrow upstairs veranda. She slowly lowered her sunglasses and thumbed back a wayward strand of her salted, birch-blond bangs. She squinted to the morning light diffusing in through the muddled plastic of the zipper-tent enclosing the balcony. "It's a such a gorgeous day," she said. "It stings."
I nodded. It was a spectacular February morning, bright, clean and full up with that heavy brisk that forms in the hours just before the cold air of lingering night completely gives way to the warm mug of day. I ran my hands across my face. I looked up to Hux's squinted eyes, her splotchy cheeks, her ragged clumps of unwashed hair. We shared a commiserating smile.
Presently, our waitress approached - a rangy sprite, narrow and straight, with a black bob, olive skin, and the most adorable pair of black-framed lenses perched atop her strong nose. Quintessential midwood mistress, quirky and divine.
She absconded to fetch our coffee, and Hux and I reflected: Soul is two restaurants in one. At night, it's a swarming lounge, swollen with music and laughter and flavor and abated light. Tapas dance cruel and sushi rolls mean and the pork-belly tacos punch you right in the gut. But for me, it's the drinks, dear god, the Basil Smashes and the red red wines, they flow so fast and so readily, and it's impossible not to, in an instant, drink yourself drunk. Soul, at night, is not a restaurant to be dined casually. It's a force to reckon; it's a bright hot swill. And if you let it, it'll always take you where you want to be. But then there's that other Soul. That once a week daylight binge, the Sunday brunch, the counterpoint to your drunk drunk nights. Haggard with heads low and eyes tight and feet ashuffle, skittering down the cracked sidewalk, all the denizens of the late-night world awake and wander together, inexorably drawn here, to this place, this dazzling place, that opens itself up to us in its most vulnerable hours to feed our faces with the most glorious menu of hang-over spurnables your wasted mind could imagine.
Our waitress returned with our coffee and cream. I delighted. Huxley ordered the scrambled egg pierogies; I went with the shrimp and grits.
We sipped our brew, strong, warm and rich, for a bit, until, in too little time, our waitress returned. "So..." she began, "the kitchen is a little out of sorts this morning... we're out of pierogies."
"That's fine," Hux said, so sweet and demure. "I'll have the mac and cheese."
We soaked up the warming air and forced our eyes to let in a little more of the morning light. I turned sideways in my chair and leaned my head and shoulders back against the brick wall. I looked up and admired the amber light seeping from the antique sconces stationing the upper perimeter. "I love this place," Huxley said, gazing dream-faced out into the steadily enlivening miasma of Central ave.
I smiled. "Me too."
"Can we order mimosas?"
I glanced down at my watch; it was ten to noon. "Nope, not yet."
Our waitress returned with our plates: I was presented with a magnificently arranged tray set upon with fried building blocks of sweet southern grits, smothered in shrimp and andouille and a spicy cream; Hux was handed a messy little cast-iron bowl of corkscrew macaroni drenched in hot white cheddar and topped with bacon and chive, and it was all the best and worst things she or I could desire.
Our hearts swelled and our throats filled up and we salivated like wild, unfettered things. Without care or consideration, we devoured. Savory delights not fit for any creatures such as ourselves, not on that morning, not after that night, but that's what Soul brunch is... that's what it does. It fixes you, it heals you, it restores in you whatever semblances and sensibilities the previous night had taken away. It fills you full, deep and complete, with exactly what you need.
The waitress returned, two tall cylinders of nectar in hand, and placed them on the table. "Sorry about the pierogies," she said. "These are on the house."
I gaped, I gawked, I mooned those two glasses. Juice and champagne, a marriage of substances not easily rivaled, the crowning gesture of an exceptional morning. "Mimosas..." I said in a slur. I let the sound roll round my mouth and spill purposefully from my lips. "Mimosas." I spit and I toiled and let myself get all riled up with it. "Mimosas!"
Hux reached out and put her hand on my wrist. "Calm down."
I grinned, a jackal, and threw back half my glass, the bubbly sweet and acid all so perfect together, so perfect in my mouth. I looked down at Hux, that girl, that vision, her and all her colors, opaline and prismatic, that oval face, the curves of those crazy lips, and that hair there just dancin', blowin'. "No, you calm down," I said to her.
The quirky waitress got a really good tip.
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