I love and appreciate restaurants of all shapes, sizes and circumstances.
The colossal, nautical-themed Calabash buffet that threatens to deplete the population of snow crabs in the Bering Strait. The old-fashioned barbecue joint built from cinder blocks that smokes everything on the hog except the oink, with a barely working air-conditioning unit sagging out the window. The Jamaican restaurant camouflaged into a squalid shopping plaza where there is always the lady screaming at you over a Garnett Silk record, trying to let you know that they've just run out of oxtails. The Japanese steakhouse mimicking the architecture of a traditional Sukiya-zukuri, where a Teppanyaki chef will attempt to toss a grilled shrimp in your mouth. Those shipping containers from cargo ships that hipsters are repurposing into spaces to sell bacon-maple donuts and matcha macchiatos. Even the Mexican cantina with the terracotta tiled roofs that lets you wear the sombrero if it's your birthday and serves steak fajitas that sizzle en route to your table.
However, out of all the spaces and places I've dined, there's nothing that captivates me more than eating in restaurants that were, once upon a time, somebody's home. In an uncanny way, I thoroughly enjoy eating deviled eggs or Belgian waffles and even sipping prosecco where people took bubble baths, played Monopoly, folded laundry, wrapped Christmas presents, painted cabinets, laughed at "I Love Lucy," got pregnant and possibly even died. They have a charm that can't be duplicated by restaurants that were meant to be restaurants.
My first experience with eating at a home-turnt-restaurant was at Taste of Country (formerly the W. G. Fowler house built in 1890) — the two-story house on the corner of South Front and Ann Street in Wilmington's historic district, separated from the Cape Fear River by Chandler's Wharf. I'll never forget the aroma of fried chicken, collard greens and candied yams floating through bedrooms, parlors, foyer and every other square inch of the nine-bedroom house. When Taste of Country closed in 2006, it sat empty and decaying until businessman Peter Koke saved it from being demolished by the city. It has since been gorgeously restored and seems to be a private residence today.
Lucky for me, and anybody else who has this weird obsession with restaurants that used to be homes, Chattanooga has at least a trio of them that gives a new and literal meaning to a "home-cooked meal."
2315 E. Main St.
Chattanooga Times Free Press reporter Ben Sessoms, along with a legion of other loyalists, have constantly castigated me for having yet to try the infamous Murder Burger at this classic Craftsman-style home built in 1930. The chandelier, wood-paneled walls and fireplace that looks like it hasn't blazed in at least a few decades add to the shabby-chic vibes.
(According to a Chattanooga Times Free Press article from July 12, 1942, World War I Navy veteran James Kirby Smith died in this home.)
921 Barton Ave.
As talented as they are, I'm not 100% sure that either Ryan Smith or Chloe Wright could have achieved this impeccable level of coziness if the setting weren't a cottage built in the 1920s. Prior to the huevos rancheros and cocktails crafted with small-batch mezcal, the space was a former "hair bar" called Pixie, and it also used to be Susanna's, a woman's clothing boutique, until 2019 Mayor Tim Kelly submitted a zone-change application to convert it into a restaurant, and the rest is history.
518 Tremont St.
The fat stack of buttermilk pancakes topped with a plop of blueberry melange was almost wiped out for good. Jeff Brakebill spent three years curating the bungalow's signature quirk, including hardwood floors recovered from the gymnasium of a school. In 2006, the then-76-year-old home was nearly burned to the ground (foul play was suspected). Brakebill quickly rebuilt, and thanks to his resilience, you're still able to chillax on the porch, sipping your Irish Cue-Ball.