Barbie at Blue Smoke - NYC

Everyone knows the story of the southern girl who goes to the city to make it big. She’s young, she’s bright-eyed, and her mama tells her she sings like an angel. Her sweet country world has never let her down, but the city teaches her a different kind of lesson. Her dreams might come true there, but they might also go up in smoke.

Six years ago, I was that southern girl. Like Miley Cyrus wants us to believe she did, I hopped off the plane at JFK with a dream and my cardigan. Jumped in a cab and there I was for the first time, looked to my right and saw the Empire State sign. The thing is, I didn’t have the voice of angel (and obviously, neither does Miley Cyrus…). If you’ve ever heard me sing you know my voice probably comes from a hotter place much farther down. But I didn’t want a record deal, I wanted an MD so I ended up in the South Bronx. I loved the Caribbean food there, but the latitude was too far down to remind me of home. Only the good ole south would do and Blue Smoke would do just that.

The drinks we started with were clearly meant to be consumed on a back porch with a rocking chair and a fan. One was even called the Porch Swing, and wouldn’t you believe it came cool as a cucumber in a glass of lemonade. The bourbon in the Hayride warmed up you up like a good shot of SoCo, and the cider and pear lightened it up some.

My tummy was turning and I was feeling kinda homesick before I took a bite of the Brisket Sandwich, stuffed full of tender, smoky beef. Those moist, meaty slices slip right out while you tried to fit your mouth around a sandwich as wide as southern moms are generous. Even the slaw had the spice of the south, and this is coming from a southern girl who hates slaw.

No huge plate of southern is complete without a little plate of vegetable, and the Roasted Brussels Sprouts were a bitter break from all that meat.

New York was definitely not a Raleigh party, ‘cause all I saw were LBDs and stilettos, I guess I never got the memo. That’s when the waitress dropped my favorite plate…and the Chicken and Waffles were on the table. So I put my fork up and the homesickness flies away. Crispy fried chicken, hell yeah, buttery maple syrup, hell yeah. Y’all can’t argue with the sweet-and-salty.

For most bright-eyed southern girls, there’s nothing more foreign than a city that never sleeps, but there’s also nothing that makes you feel at home than a restaurant that never sleeps. No matter where you’re from or where you’re going, there’s always a place on some little NYC corner, tucked into some little hole in the wall that takes you back. Thomas Wolfe said you can’t go home again, but I'm guessing Thomas Wolfe didn’t eat much.