IntroductionIn the Black community, you typically have a set of clothes that are reserved for church. Your nicest dress, your socks with the fold-over lace on them, a pair of conservative heels. It’s a practice that extends all the way back to the days of slavery. There were laws preventing Black people from congregating in groups of more than two or three. The only time they were really allowed to gather was at the plantation church house on Sundays. So they’d shine up their shoes, dust off their pants, and wear the best of what they had. And this continued through—and in many places, well after—segregation. Since their nicest clothes were generally their church clothes, people would put on their “Sunday best” just to go to town, because they wanted to look respectable so that they would be seen as acceptable. It was a way of saying “take me seriously” to anyone who didn’t accept Black people as equal.
Even today, those who cook African American food—which is to say, Southern and soul food—have had to push back against similar prejudices, demanding respect for a cuisine that’s seen as just humble and homespun. By highlighting the subtleties, nuance, and cultural influences from the diverse groups that have had a hand in the pot, I’ve made it my mission to dress Southern food up in its own Sunday best. Whether by showcasing clever techniques, incorporating unexpected ingredients, or adding a bit of finesse through enticing finishing touches or thoughtful plating, I want to show that this food deserves a place at the table and in the narrative of serious cuisine. And that, like all other cuisines that began with humble, country cooking, it too can grow and evolve.
The concept of Sunday Best also encapsulates the value I place on feeding people. Think about it: for most of us, the very first meals we ever ate were prepared by our parents, which makes cooking a primary and fundamental way of expressing care and love. So to me, feeding others isn’t a labor or chore but a privilege. It’s an honor to nurture both body and soul. I make a point of reminding myself of that every time I step into the kitchen. Not just at work, but at home, and not just one day a week, but every day. I believe that Sunday Best represents an ideal that most of us share, or at least strive for. Regardless of whether it involves dressing up for church, it refers to putting on not only your best clothes but also your best attitude. It’s when you cook your best food, for the people you care about most. And it’s when you take the time to amplify and glorify who you are, as friends, as a community, and as a family.
When you rewind to my childhood, you’ll discover why I come by my affinity for the Sunday Best approach to cooking so naturally. Growing up, I had three grandmothers: my mom’s mom, Patricia, and two on my dad’s side. There was his mother, Ceola, and his father’s wife, Emmer. And then there was his father’s sister Ruby— we call her Big Sister—who was actually more of a close friend and grandmother figure to me, even though she lived way out in Mississippi, instead of near us in Chicago. So yes, growing up, I had three or four grandmothers, and it never occurred to me that it was unusual. Who doesn’t have three or four? Not to mention a divorced dad, Jack (who is Black); my mom, Susan (who is white); all their siblings and half siblings; and my very own sister, Jacqui—all of whom came together to eat and celebrate on Sundays despite divorces and differences and even a little bit of prejudice too.
My mom and my dad, two very different people, met in 1975 while working at the Oscar Mayer plant in Chicago. They only really knew each other by sight until the night they decided to go out drinking with a bunch of coworkers, several of whom were Black. They chose a bar near my mom’s Irish Catholic neighborhood on the North Side, and the manager refused to admit those “n-words.” Well, my mother wasn’t having that. She got into a big argument with the manager, telling him that if he didn’t let them in, well, the white members of the group would also go and spend their money elsewhere. For a pair of rebellious twenty-year-olds in 1970s Chicago, it turns out that adversity was all they needed to form a romantic bond.
Needless to say, when my mom started dating my dad, nobody’s family members were very excited about it on either side—especially a couple of my mom’s macho brothers, then in their teens, and her father, who was a bit of an Archie Bunker type. But he was also a good person, and a good Catholic, which he liked to say meant that you respect and embrace people. In fact, when the city had desegregated the schools in his neighborhood, there was one Black student in the elementary class and my grandfather told his own children that they were going to invite him over to do his homework and have dinner once in a while. Because we’re good Catholics.
So when Mom brought home Dad to meet the family, well, that really tested my grandfather’s “good Catholics” theory. Add to that the fact that he was a World War II marine veteran, while my father, upon being drafted for the Vietnam War, had written a conscientious objector dissertation based on Black Panther Party principles. My grandfather asked for a copy of the paper, and after he read it he was like, “Well, you’re smart. I’d never looked at things from this perspective. You just barely got the right to vote and still don’t have full rights and aren’t accepted as a full citizen. So it would be crazy to ask you to go to the front lines and fight for a country that hasn’t fought for you.”
My grandfather was as open-minded as he could be, and he and my dad became great friends. My mom’s siblings ended up embracing my dad as well, and he stayed one of the family long after my parents divorced. (He once even brought my grandfather flowers when they went out to dinner, which of course prompted my grandfather to insist to the waitress that they weren’t gay.) My mom and dad split when I was ten, and frankly, I don’t know how they even stayed together that long. But when they made the announcement, my grandfather sat them down. He said, “You have kids to raise. I don’t care if you can’t work things out as adults, but you’re not going to mess with your children. It doesn’t matter if you two are together or not, but you’re going to raise this family like a family.”
So even though he didn’t live with us anymore, my dad still took my sister and me for breakfast at Valois or Salonica every Sunday morning. And each Sunday night, the four of us would pile into the car and drive to the North Side for dinner at my maternal grandparents’ house. Still very much a family.
My mom had gone back to work when I was about five as a host at a diner and bar called Mellow Yellow in our neighborhood. Jacqui and I practically grew up at Mellow Yellow. Every day after school, we’d walk straight to the restaurant and wait for Mom to finish her shift. We’d sit in the nonsmoking section and do our homework, and the bartender, Ernie, would make us Shirley Temples and milkshakes. If my father wasn’t working the overnight shift or a double at the Oscar Mayer plant, sometimes he’d meet us there too.
So to me, restaurants were where family was, and I came to learn that the camaraderie that develops among restaurant staff makes them seem like family as well. If the bathroom needed to be mopped and all the waiters were on the floor, my mom would say that the girls would do it because that’s what people have kids for, right? Even when she didn’t work there anymore, she’d go back to help sometimes if she knew they were short-staffed. Or if a busser called out, it didn’t matter if I wanted to hang out at the mall on the weekend. She’d inform the restaurant that if they gave me twenty bucks, I’d be there for the whole day.
Copyright © 2022 by Adrienne Cheatham with Sarah Zorn. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
