I was thinking of the Colonnade, and it reminded me of my friend Robert's account of the one and only time we went there in 2012. Which was obviously before he died:
So, after 30 years, I finally made it to the Colonnade, the OTHER Southern lunch place next to Mary Mac's, the principal place on Ponce where people of a certain age (born when Coolidge was President) dine in Atlanta. I am (and still am) a Mary Mac's guy, the joke is, you are either a PC guy (People of Colonnade) or a Mac guy.
Mary Macs is colorful and funky. The Colonnade – I learned yesterday – is much of its time; I think the last time they may have tacked up wallpaper or vacuumed might have been when we were about to have NASA go to the moon.
All this is fine; the food – fried everything, overcooked vegetables, giganticus desserts made for The Greatest Generation, who no longer have any teeth but like giant bowls of fudge-glazed, well, fudge.
Now, my very favorite lunch pal, who has been with me for something like 20 years now, and who is as witty as Noel Coward, a talented artist, and to some extent, the guy who tortures me amusingly the best because he knows all my major and minor foibles in 1,000 ways. So, the Colonnade – you’d have to see it – is like walking into the set of the Dick Van Dyke show’s best lunch place, but Southern. Fried fish, chicken, livers, milk, green beans, fried anything. Mashed sprouts, turnips, pickles, apples, beans, anything. It’s like a Paula Deen wet dream.
Now, Best Pal is an Atlanta lad of many years, this is good territory for him, and new territory for me. We order fried this or that, it’s very economical and strange and our waiter is fun. (My pal is fun, too – the waiter was African-American, my friend ordered his chicken, and then whispered, “I said, 'Fried Chicken, Dark Meat.' Do you think he was offended?” The stuff of dreams!)
So, we’re eating, and there is a loon behind Best Pal, with, presumably, his mother, who looks quite like Anthony Perkin’s Mom in “Psycho,” staring into her buttermilk like she’d had a lobotomy along with one of the Kennedy kids in the 1940s. He had a laptop with him, and he started – God, literally, knows why – to list Methodist church names. My Best Pal jumps in as he goes along.
Methodist Man (droning voice):
Church of Christ
Church of Faithbridge
Church of The Harvest
Church of Riverbridge
Church of the Morning Star
… and, as he goes on, Best Pal, who can hear, but can’t see what he’s up to, whispers, "Shrimp creole ..."
Every time Church man takes a breath …
Church of the Covenant
Shrimp gumbo
Church of the New Covenant
Shrimp ka-bob
Now, the juicy part is, every time Best Pal and I, who are in stitches with this incantatory recitation of churches v. Bubba shrimp recipes, think he’s done, no, he starts up again, and so does Best Pal.
Church of the Woodlands … (he drones on)
Best Pal: Pan-fried, deep-fried, stir-fried. There's pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich …
Now, this goes on for some time, until the Droning Methodist packs up his computer, picks up the remains of his mother – and get this – dons a sombrero that looks like a 1960s cartoon, and leaves.
It was cripplingly funny, which is an operative word, since I stood up with my cane, and suddenly looked around and realized EVERYONE in the Colonnade had a cane, unless they were in a chair, gurney, or hearse.
We drifted out of God’s Little Waiting Room into the afternoon where the sky virtually said “come to the light!” – and went on with our day!
A thing of beauty, but from now on, it’s Mary Mac's!
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1) No, We were not a couple. We were more like a double act in Vaudeville. We were "The Bob and Robert Show." Or, as Robert once said, "Shecky and Shaky."
We worked together from 9:00-5:30 every day, then sat at the bar for another few hours. We knew each other's timing and could both set up a straight line and let the other one nail the punch.
2) This might actually be the last thing of Robert's I'll ever copy edit. The guy could crank out the words, but he couldn't punctuate.
