Gluttony and Good Times: The Magic of Mrs. Wilkes

If you’ve never been to Savannah before, check your expectations at the Georgia state line.

Forget all those visions of the traditional South. This is the new millennium, cuz, and Savannah is like a Southern belle who stepped out of her petticoat and hoop skirt to join the twenty-first century. If you’re expecting restaurants serving “classic” Southern fare on every corner you’re going to be disappointed, but there are still a few establishments where the tradition continues to thrive.

One of the most well-known and well-loved is Mrs. Wilkes’ Dining Room.

The locals all told me to get there early. Make sure you’re there by ten-thirty, they said. For lunch at 11? Seriously?

Mrs. Wilkes is open only on weekdays for lunch. Since it was a Friday and I was leaving Savannah early on the following Monday morning, I had one shot at a seat at her table. After a light breakfast at Goose Feathers and spending the morning sauntering lazily through the squares on Barnard Street, I turned onto Jones Street at fifteen minutes after ten.

Halfway down the street, I saw it.

A line of people stretching down the block, pointing to Mrs. Wilkes’s doorstep like a neon arrow: You are here.

I was there alright, and half-heartedly took my place behind gawdonlyknows how many people already in line.

Lucky for me, I’d fallen in with a supremely entertaining group including a Canadian couple who had just completed a road trip from Montreal to Key West. They were making their way back home and regaled us with stories from the road, her jovial disposition a contrast to his dry wit. Our laughter echoed against masonry walls of the building and rose above the low din of gathered crowd. Time passed like poured honey: slow but sweet.

Promptly at 11, the doors to Mrs. Wilkes opened and one of the hosts began ushering in the front of the line for the first seating. After fifty people or so had been seated, the line stopped moving abruptly–the dining room was full. I stood there, dazed and hopeless like a jilted suitor.

Almost as soon as I had reconciled myself to waiting for another half an hour or more, my luck turned. One of the hosts came out to the line, held up an index finger and shouted, “We have room for one more person!”

Several pairs of eyes turned to me as my addled brain slowly realized what that meant. Me? Me! I thrust my fists in the air, hollered out a “woo-hoo!”, and practically skipped my way to the door past the waiting diners good-naturedly applauding my good fortune. For a hot minute, I felt like a rock star, complete with the requisite arrogance, mentally scoffing at the happy couples and genial families I passed on my way to the front of the line. Suckas!

I was ushered into a large room, basically a walk-in cellar with four or five large tables spread out through the space. The walls were a dark red brick with thick white mortar with the lower half embellished with a creamy beadboard. Folk art, newspaper clippings and Wilkes family photographs adorned the walls, testaments to the family and the culture they’d preserved.

I was shown to a table for eight with an empty chair and almost as soon as I sat down, the servers emerged from the kitchen at the back of the room and began placing dish after heaping dish at the table. I had barely a moment to introduce myself to my table mates before the bowls and platters began to multiply before our eyes.

Oh. My. Lanta.

Crispy golden fried chicken. Moist, flavorful meat loaf.  Tender stewed beef. Blackeyed peas. Baked beans. Green beans. Lima beans. Macaroni pie. Potato salad. Mashed sweet potatoes. Biscuits. Corn bread. Rutabagas. Collard greens. Sweet tea to wash it all down.

And that’s just what made it to my side of the table.

I took a small spoonful of each dish as it was passed to me hoping to minimize the damage to my diet, but after most of the dishes had made the circuit my plate looked like it belonged to a 300 lb. man.

But there was no time to be embarrassed.

There was an urgency to the meal as we knew scores of other people were waiting to get in. As we shoveled fast spoonfuls of the delicious meal in our mouths, tearing savory meat from bone with our fingers and teeth, I got to know my table mates. One couple from South Carolina and another from Alabama. A gentleman from Waikiki, Hawaii. His friends, a mother-daughter duo who turned out to be the only born-and-bred Savannahians I met during my entire stay.

We laughed as we ate, dizzy with delight over the wonderful, ample meal but at the same time guiltlessly ashamed of our unabashed food-lust. A look around at the other tables revealed much of the same. The dining room was noisy with the sound of clanging dishes and conversation and laughter as total strangers bonded and became family over a plate of ribs or a hot biscuit. As amazing as the food itself was, the companionship of the people around me made the experience just that much more satisfying. That’s the real magic of Mrs. Wilkes.

Almost half an hour after the first bite, we sat around the table, slumped against our chairs to give our stomachs room to expand, listless in the wake of a total foodgasm. The servers came around again clearing half-eaten and empty dishes from the table and replacing them with a tray of berry cobblers and small bowls of banana pudding for dessert. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t eat another bite, but I forced a single spoonful of the banana pudding into my gullet, simply because I didn’t want to leave behind any of the wonderful experience.

Soon it was time to go. One by one, the members of our little group said their goodbyes. The room was quieter now as the servers began to prepare the tables anew for the next seating. I paid for the meal at the register on my way out. And when the people who were still waiting asked me how it was?

So worth the wait.

I lingered outside for a while longer because, quite frankly, I didn’t want to leave. It was close to noon now, and the gray skies that had threatened all morning finally broke open and a light drizzle began to fall. The people waiting in line simply opened up their umbrellas or pulled their jackets more closely, but they had no intention of moving. They weren’t leaving without their own shot at Mrs. Wilkes.

Good call.