Part I
I tend to identify places by their meat-and-three makeup. In my hometown of Meridian, Mississippi, Binke’s and Jean’s tie for the best in town. Northport, Alabama, claims City Cafe, a college favorite. So, when I first moved to Birmingham back in July 2007, I was lost, not knowing where to turn for black-eyed peas, butter beans, creamed corn. But the Anchorage in Homewood, I was told, had it all–and then some.

Eager to become a “native” of my new city as soon as possible, I scoped out all the places I wanted to try. I drove by The Anchorage many times before I stopped, knowing full-well my tendency to become dependent on establishments of its kind. After putting it off for quite some time, one day, all alone and on a whim, I walked inside and had myself a healthful heaping of veggies and cornbread.

This wasn’t just a place with good food, though the chicken and dressing instantly and immensely impressed me. This place had people. Lots of them. And it had history. Established 1941? Wow. Did my mom, who grew up here, come as a child? What about my grandparents? Did they enjoy newlywed brunches in these booths?

It was great, a real welcomer to the city. I set out to introduce others to my new find. (I would later learn it wasn’t my discovery at all, but a staple that everyone knew, loved, embraced. The Anchorage is an anchor, really.)

I brought my granddad back for breakfast, my mom for lunch. After we were married in May, my husband and I set out to begin our first tradition: after-church lunch at The Anchorage every, and I mean every, Sunday.

So when rumors of its closing made their way to our ears, we wouldn’t–no, couldn’t–believe. Was our little tradition, in which we held such pride, excitement, and anticipation, to be stripped from us, and so soon? It seems so.

Part II
But, we thought we had time. Just Sunday, we sat and ate, smiling and enjoying other people’s company. At The Anchorage, people keep you company without even making contact. They sit, eat, laugh with their families. It is the picture of a perfect place.

This morning reality sneaked up on me. I learned today was, in fact, the day The Anchorage doors would close. I tried to rally friends together to join me there for lunch; I considered not going, that a long wait may prevent me from even getting inside. But, in the end, again I found myself all alone and on a whim, walking inside for a last heaping of veggies and cornbread, just as I had on my first visit.

The news was in murmurs, it jumped from table to table. No one who came today didn’t find out the truth: there would be no more cornbread like this, no more banana pudding or sweet tea. It was the last day, no doubt. I saw what looked like mini reunions, heard life stories about long-gone people who loved the place just like me. People were sad, people were happy. There was a hint of disbelief in the air, a cruel joke ready to reveal itself.

Part III
I found my way to a small two-seater. I was to say goodbye here, over veggies, and chicken and dressing. But a mother and daughter pulled my table to theirs. They said they wouldn’t let me sit alone. At first I protested, saying I did not want to taint their last family outing at The Anchorage, but they insisted. Then, dad and son showed up. I soon found myself in the midst of not only a family, but a history and love for this place much deeper than what for me was only a young obsession. Best of all, I felt welcome.

Most of us got the chicken and dressing; some of us ordered roast beef. I saw items from the menu I’d never seen, got a good first look at the chocolate pecan pie. With every bite, I can’t say I thought about how it would be one of my last. Instead, I ate and enjoyed, as I had for the last year or so.

People kept walking up to the family I sat with, saying hello and shaking hands. Old friends plus good food equals excellent combination. Sure, I felt slightly strange and a tad out of place, but I was happy to be an observer. I told of my first visit to The Anchorage; they told of when they used to walk here from their house.

But as the meal ended, there were sighs and different renditions of, “I can’t believe this is the last time we’ll eat here.” The waiter came and thanked the family for their love and support over the years. To think, I was a small part of their experience–and so grateful for their kindness.

While my last visit to The Anchorage was somber, I experienced it in the best way–with people who knew it better than I. It was a small viewing of what the old restaurant is all about: good food, friendly faces, and a hat-tip to humanity in general.

May it always stay, somewhere.

See Amelia Strauss’ related blog post here.