Reportage, travel

Das alkoholische Alphorn

Eindrücke von der Internationalen Konferenz der Anonymen Alkoholiker

Juli 2015

Atlanta, Georgia. Im normalen Leben ist der Alkoholismus ein ziemlicher Turn-Off, der zwischen peinlich und tragisch oszilliert. Darum gibt es wohl auch kaum eine Club-Mitgliedschaft, die weniger begehrt ist, als die der Anonymen Alkoholiker. Es ist ja schon schlimm genug, sich selbst eingestehen zu müssen, ein Loser zu sein. Es anderen Leuten auf die Nase zu binden, steigert die Demütigung auf den nächsten Level. Aufgrund des Dramapotenzials kommt keine anständige Seifenoper ohne ein AA-Meeting mit einem zünftigen Nervenzusammenbruch aus, bei dem sich seelische Wracks ausheulen, während ringsum schlecht angezogenen Ex-Trinker betreten auf den Teppich schauen.

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Alkoholiker und trotzdem gut drauf

Am Independence Day in Atlanta sieht die Sache anders aus. Um die 60,000 nüchterne Alkoholiker haben sich hier versammelt, um das 80-jährige Bestehen ihrer Selbsthilfegruppe zu feiern, die weltweit um die zwei Millionen Mitglieder zählt. Im Georgia Dome fiebern sie alle dem Moment entgegen, als eine kurzhaarige Afro-Amerikanerin in einem gelben T-Shirt vor das Mikrofon tritt: “Mein Name ist Stefanie”, sagt die stabil gebaute Mittfünfzigerin, “und ich bin Alkoholikerin.” Es ist ein Eingeständnis, das mit frenetischem Beifall quittiert wird. Zwanzig Minuten lang erzählt die Gewerkschafterin aus Brooklyn aus ihrem Leben. Wie alle AA-Geschichten immer im selben Format: Trink- und Leidensphase, Wendepunkt, Nüchternheit und Erlösung dank AA und seinem Zwölfschritteprogramm. “Ein Alkoholiker alleine kann nicht nüchtern bleiben. Doch wenn er mit einem anderen Alkoholiker seine Erfahrung, Kraft und Hoffnung teilt, kann er seine Krankheit dauerhaft überwinden”, erklärt der (anonyme) Pressesprecher, ein nachdenklicher Mann, der wie viele AA-Mitglieder so gesund aussieht, als hätte er in seinem Leben noch nie ein Schnapsglas schief angeschaut.

Als nächstes wird dem Publikum etwas Alternatives geboten – zumindest, was die Verpackung betrifft. “Ich bin eine taubstumme, schwule, jüdische Schlampe”, ertönt die Stimme aus dem Lautsprecher, während auf der Leinwand ein glatzköpfiger Mittvierziger mit Hornbrille gestikuliert. “Aber deswegen bin ich nicht hier. Ich bin hier, weil ich Alkoholiker bin.” Wilder Beifall. Pointenreich, intelligent und witzig berichtet der Schriftsteller aus Kalifornien aus seinem Leben; auch er predigt wie die anderen Sprecher die heilende Medizin der zwölf Schritte. Ein Sprecher folgt dem anderen: schwarz, weiß, alt, jung, lesbisch, hetero – die Formel bleibt dieselbe. Immer wieder “teilen” Alkoholiker ihre Trinkergeschichte miteinander, wie es einst die AA-Urväter Bill Wilson und Dr. Bob Smith taten, um sich den nächsten Whisky auszureden. Immer wieder lachen sie über die tragischsten und peinlichsten Momente, nur um Sekunden später zu verstummen, wenn es eine bewegende Anekdote gibt: von der ergrauten lesbischen Frau, die in den 80-Jahren ihre AIDS-kranken AA-Freunde auf deren Leidensweg begleitete, oder von der Krebskranken, die sich auf der Konferenz noch einmal Mut machen will, bevor sie sich ihren Tumor operieren lässt. “Ihr alle seid Wunder”, ruft sie in den Raum, “und in den nächsten Wochen werde ich ein Wunder brauchen.”

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Für diesen AA-Jünger ist Gott immer die Antwort

“Wunder”, “Gnade” und natürlich immer wieder Gott, die konfessionsfreie höhere Macht, die es laut AA unverbesserlichen Saufbolden ermöglicht, die Dose Bier heute mal in der Tanke zu lassen. Der bisweilen recht moralinsaure Kern der Geschichte wird von keinem besser mit Humor überzuckert als von Clancy I., einem 87-jährigen Sozialarbeiter, der von seinen Jüngern in der “Pacific Group” flammenden Herzens verehrt wird. Im “Atlanta Tabernacle” einem verschnörkelten Theater, das wie eine Wild West Kulisse aussieht, erzählt der greise Guru neunzig Minuten lang Schwänke aus seinem Leben. Mit der Stimme eines weißen Satchmos lässt der Ex-Matrose seine Sauftouren Revue passieren lässt, berichtet mit Kraftausdrücken von seinem alkoholbedingten Versagen als Ehemann und Vater, bis er dem Kichersaft 1958 ein für alle mal abschwor. Über mangelndes Interesse muss sich der AA-Pate nicht beklagen: schon zwei Stunden, bevor seine Rede beginnt, bildet sich eine Schlange – vor allem junge Leute scheinen den alten Herren, der als Zuchtmeister bekannt ist, zu verehren. “Du bist nicht Alkoholiker, weil Alkohol dein Problem ist”, erklärt er, “Du bist Alkoholiker, weil Alkohol deine Antwort ist.” Sentenzen wie diese kommen gut an; überhaupt hört man allenthalben Schlagworte und Maximen, die Vages eindeutig und Widersprüchliches einfach machen, um so das Leben “nur für einen Tag” zu meistern.

Wir wären nicht in Amerika, wenn es nicht auch nach diesem Event einen Hard Sell gäbe: für $15 ist der Spielfilm “Grace” zu erstehen, in dem eine attraktive Brünette ihre Trunksucht überwindet. Auch an anderer Merchandise gibt es hier keinen Mangel. Gegenüber vom “Tabernacle” ist die Sober Village, ein Markt, auf denen diverse Anbieter allerlei genesungsrelevanten Schnickschnack anbieten. Für Mädchen T-Shirts mit dem Slogan “Spiritually Intoxicated” und “Sober Princess”, für die tätowierten Altrocker und Ex-Knackis “Grateful I’m not Dead” und “Bill Wilson rode a Harley”, dazu mit Strass überzogene Medaillons für die Jahre ohne Alkohol. Weitere Staubfänger sind Kühlschrankmagneten mit heilend-spirituellen Begriffen (“wisdom”, “grace”, “serenity”) und reichlich Schmuck, in denen das AA-Symbol (ein Dreieck in einem Kreis) verarbeitet wird. Auch auf Hochglanz polierte Holzschatullen, in denen AA-Mitglieder ihre Bibel, das Buch “Anonyme Alkoholiker”, reliquiengleich aufbewahren können, werden hier angeboten.

Auf dem Gehsteig dudelt ein schottischer Alkoholiker auf seinem Dudelsack, was die Amerikaner, die einen ja schon dafür beklatschen, wenn man aus Idaho kommt, awesome finden. Man möchte meinen, der Zirkus sei nicht zu toppen, als wenige Meter weiter entfernt ein schnurrbärtiger Schweizer eine Ansammlung von Rohren aus seiner Tausche klaubt, um sie zu einem Alpenhorn zusammenzubauen. Dann tutet er eine liebliche Weise, als sei er auf der Graubündner Alm. Dieser Sensory Overload muss selbst den gelassensten Wassertrinker auf eine harte Probe stellen.

Schnell winke ich mir ein Yellow Cab herbei. Was er denn von dem ganzen Trubel halte, frage ich meinen Fahrer. “Ich habe Respekt vor diesen Leuten”, sagt er. “Alle diese Alkoholiker haben aufgehört, ihr Problem zu verleugnen. Ich habe so viele Freunde und Verwandte, die zuviel trinken und es nicht zugeben wollen. Und bei mir in der Straße wohnt eine obdachlose Trinkerin, die jegliche Hilfe entrüstet ablehnt, obwohl sie sich aus der Mülltonne ernährt. Und das war einmal eine Bundesrichterin.”

Laut der 60,000 Alkoholiker im Georgia Dome gibt es selbst für diese Frau noch Hoffnung.

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On reflection

Ghost of a lynching that won’t be laid to rest

Every year, a group of activists assemble in deepest Georgia to stage a macabre ritual: the re-enactment of America’s last mass lynching

Monroe, Georgia. There’s a tense atmosphere at the First African Baptist Church in the small town of Monroe. Four policemen are standing in the entrance – only to help traffic, as they explain reassuringly. Rumours fly. A few miles down the road, there’s a rally in support of the Confederate flag; every now and then pickup trucks pass by on their way flying oversized Rebel States banners. Word on the street has it that the KKK has gathered here today, and at First African, no-one doubts it. Pastor Cassandra Greene is unfazed. “I like it when the Klan shows itself”, says the redoubtable outreach worker from Charleston. “I may be a Christian, but if I have to, I will fight you.”

Pastor Greene – “Miss Cassandra” to her cast – is the Artistic Director of the Moore’s Ford Bridge re-enactment: the dramatisation of a notorious massacre that horrified America 69 years ago. Roger Malcom, a black US Army veteran, was holed up at Walton county jail following a knife fight – Malcom had critically injured a white farmer whom he suspected of raping his girl-friend Dorothy. Soon afterwards another white farmer, Loy Harrison, posted bail for Malcom. Harrison brought with him a welcome party consisting of Dorothy Dorsey, her brother George Dorsey and her sister-in-law, Mary Mae Murray. Then he drove them – knowingly or not – into a Klan ambush at Moore’s Ford, a remote bridge spanning the Appalachee river. The 12-15 Klansmen lynched all of Harrison’s passengers, cutting Dorothy’s baby out her womb on the day she turned 20.

Civil war battles are re-enacted all the time. Lynchings not so much.

Roger Malcom (Sentelle Tolbert) is being taken. Civil war battles are re-enacted all the time, lynchings not so much.

The atrocity made the national news. Martin Luther King, then seventeen years old, wrote to President Harry S. Truman, who in turn ordered J Edgar Hoover’s FBI to bring the killers to justice. But despite a dossier in which 55 suspects were named, no witness was willing to testify before a grand jury. To this day, the crime has gone unpunished.

Tyrone Brooks will not let the matter rest. The veteran civil rights activist has doggedly pursued a campaign for justice – after all, the case had been close to the heart of his mentor and idol, Martin Luther King. It was Brooks’ idea to mark the lynching with an annual re-enactment. Today, the former State Representative speaks to the spectacle’s audience at First African. Wearing dungarees, a polo shirt snd oversize glasses, he holds the New York Times aloft; in it is an article on former SS-officer Oskar Grönig. “If those old Nazis can be prosecuted across the world and brought to justice after all those years, why is it so difficult to bring the Moore’s Ford killers to justice who are from right here? Even today, the lynching continues. You can be lynched in a courtroom, you know. Even today, our brothers and sisters are murdered. And even today, there’s no punishment”, says Brookes while behind him, the cast of the re-enactment is bearing signs reading “I am Trayvon Martin”, “I am Michael Brown”, “I am Eric Garner”.

There may be no punishment, but there is no forgetting either; the re-enactment takes care of that. The cast are an assembly of lifelong left-wingers, trade unionists and actors. With his flowing beard and short stature, Bob Caine resembles a friendly hobbit. He supports Brooks’ group as a member of the Georgia Peace and Justice Coalition. Being Jewish, he and his wife Jeanie are all too familiar with Dixie racism. Cain’s distant relative Leo Frank was strung up by an angry white mob in 1915; a 13-year-old girl had been raped and killed at an Atlanta pencil factory, and its Jewish manager seemed a plausible perp (Frank was officially pardoned many years later).

In 1958, the Klan also bombed Atlanta’s Jewish Temple – Rabbi Rothschild was good friends with King and supported his movement. Now, Bob Cain is a klansman himself – but only a fictitious one. “For me, it’s all about re-living history, so that it isn’t forgotten. When I went to school, Moore’s Ford definitely wasn’t taught in our history lessons, it’s important people know about it.”

Can a re-enactment that’s as raw as this do anything to bring about peace and reconciliation between the races? The N-word is used from the off: “get off my land, nigger” roars Barney Hester at Roger Malcom, outraged that a black sharecropper should challenge him. Malcom – who was “probably liquored up” refuses to budge. Hester ends up with a knife in his belly and Malcom behind bars.

“You have to be very sure of yourself to take a part in this re-enactment” says Sentelle Tolbert, who plays the part of Roger Malcom. “We are calling each other the worst racial names, and we do it in a way that it looks and feels real. That only works if you can separate what’s real from what isn’t. We had to build trust during our rehearsals; and now I only feel brotherhood and love for my fellow performers.”

Eugene Talmadge was one of the most virulently racist politicians of his day. He was elected Governor of Georgia four times.

Eugene Talmadge (Walter Brown-Reeves) was one of the most virulently racist politicians of his day. He was elected Governor of Georgia four times.

For bystanders, the performance seems to be unnerving. Standing on the steps of Monroe’s courthouse, Walter Brown-Reeves spews racial hatred: he delivers a historic speech by Georgia’s then governor Eugene Talmadge with convincing passion. If the assembled voters were to re-elect Talmadge, he promises that voting in the Democratic primaries will go back to being all-white: even though the Supreme Court had just ruled the effective disenfranchisement of blacks unconstitutional. Talmadge freely uses the “N-word” to the cheering of the crowd. A white woman pushes an ancient man in a wheelchair past the mainly black spectators of the scene. “Don’t you have jobs to go to?”, she asks. Then she bends down to the elderly man and whispers in his ear. Who knows if he remembers the three-term governor, and the lynching at Moore’s Ford Bridge.

We’re approaching the climax of the play. Our convoy of spectators makes its way to that bridge, escorted by police. The time has come, the crowds are waiting. The vintage car is approaching, chrome flashing in the sun. Armed with fake rifles, Bob Cain and his Klansmen block the group’s path. “I want that nigger!” shouts their leader and drags Malcom from the car. Then one of the women commit a tragic error. “I know you, I recognise you!”, she says. At this point, the mob decides to execute all witnesses bar Harrison. The mob drags the remaining three African Americans from the car to a clearing next to the road. The victims, tied up and certain of their death, stand in an embrace, then the volleys are fired. “Bang, bang, bang!” shout the ersatz-Klansmen as the victims splatter fake blood onto themselves and collapse. The audience photographs the shooting as well as the bloodied corpses. And despite the obvious unreality of the event, the ending comes as a genuine shock. There is palpable emotion; crying ladies and sombre children look upon the scene.

Then a man approaches from the trees. Dressed in white, he kneels before the dead and starts to sing a soulful tune: Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come”. It’s an inspired touch which lends some dignity to the dead, and consolation to those watching.

A change is possible, even if it would be but a small beginning. This February, the FBI questioned 86-year-old Charlie Peppers on the murders. Whether the case will ever be brought to court – and justice be served – remains to be seen.

[Note: This is the English translation of my article published in Germany’s Süddeutsche Zeitung.]

 

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Eating and drinking, In the shops, travel

Little Five Points: Atlanta’s alternative vibe

It’s always a good idea to ask a local where to go – especially if they’re as friendly as DJ, who has come all the way from LA to “Transplanta” in order to study medicine. We were working out in Piedmont Park and had started chatting.

“Go to Li’l Five Points”, he said while doing pull-ups with no shirt on.

“It’s kinda a cool place with lots of bars, shops and hipsters.” I don’t know why, but I instinctively trusted him.

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When I ran this past my airbnb host, who studies Management Science or something similarly clued up, he seemed hesitant. “It’s the sort of places where people wear no deodorant”, he cautioned me.

“But if you want a good burger, you should try The Vortex.”

The same night, I was ubering over. With still an hour or two to go until sunset, the light had started to mellow, bathing everything in a gentle glow. There’s nothing gentle about the Vortex though. Everything about it is in yer face; the entrance is a massive skull. Walking into the dim bar, I made out all kinds of bric-a-brac – street signs, shark heads, motorbikes and skulls – which gave the place some atmosphere and made me feel quite daring and rebellious. I got myself a table on the first floor verandah and opted for the Ragin’ Cajun burger, slightly worried by the menu, which has been written by a ginormous cock:

“Topped with our zesty Cajun sauce and pepper jack cheese. If you show your titties when it comes to the table, you’ll feel just like you’re in N’awlins.”

Still, when my charming and refreshingly unpretentious waitress brought my food, it was truly scrumptious. Note to management: tone down your menu and let the burger do the talking.

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As I was munching on my delectable chow, I mused how right DJ had been. Little Five Points is shopping heaven. For shoes, there’s Wish right across from the Vortex – sadly already closed by the time I had finished my meal. If rummaging in piles of vintage clothes is your thing, try the Clothing Warehouse, the Junkman’s Daughter, Psycho Sisters or my favourite, Ragorama. On its huge shopfloor, there’s an endless supply of cool stuff to browse: vintage tees, unusual jeans, trendy jackets and all manner of jewellery and accessories. I picked up two pairs of jeans at ten bucks apiece (one a light petrol blue I’ve never seen before), a pair of very stylish shades (just a tenner) and a handful of T-shirts at $3.99 each.

Vinyl lovers will feel right at home at Criminal Records and Wax ‘n’ Facts, which has been going since 1976. And finally, if you want some body art, the Southern Star (“Atlanta’s Newest and Finest Tattoo Shop”) looks impressive – as does decorative glass emporium Crystal Blue.
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With my new purchases crammed into my backpack, I skated up and down the street for a bit, checking out the vibe. My host and even the Vortex waitress had warned me to be cautious; there were “bums panhandling”, she said. Worried about my laptop, I was, perhaps, hyper-vigilant and not very approachable. Later I thought how well-mannered the area really was. Maybe Americans are easily scared, driving around, as they do, in air-conditioned cars from point to point. Or maybe I just missed a robbery at gunpoint by five minutes.

I finished up the night with a Zesto’s artificial ice cream, sterilised with atomic rays. While waiting for the gooey cone, a local favelado came in wearing  indoor sandals on his feet and a girl on his arm. Soon the nuzzling started.

Outside was parked a white convertible the size of a small yacht – a 1970s Eldorado. The owner was a dude in his forties with a small Black Power fist in his fro. Still, he didn’t mind me taking his picture. I left at midnight, determined to come back another time, when all the shops are open.

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Eating and drinking, Leisure pursuits, Skateboarding, travel

Forget what you thought you knew about Atlanta (and take a walk in the park)

It seems like everyone passes through Atlanta, the hub of the south, but almost no-one seems to spend any length of time there, or explore the city beyond the confines of its downtown business district. Perhaps that’s not surprising, given that all Google throws up when you do an image search are depictions of a skyline that could be anywhere in the world. At Stanford’s, London’s largest travel bookshop, I could only find one travel guide on Atlanta, from the soulless, ever-so-earnest Wallpaper series. (It had one good listing in it – the rest of the booklet devoted itself to staircases of note, and wanky boutique hotels). As a result, I expected a soulless, corporate centre (Coca-Cola, CNN) set in a sprawling sea of projects (which I imagined all that hip hop ATL is so famous for must be coming from).

Wear a funny hat and I am yours

Wear a funny hat and I am yours

I was proved wrong. Yes, Atlanta has a concrety, skyscapery city centre, and yes, there are only a tiny handful of historic buildings left downtown, such as the Georgia State Capitol and the Tabernacle concert hall. But outside this relatively small core – think Croydon or Frankfurt minus pedestrians – is a lush, verdant city consisting of quiet, well-kept streets which are made up of wooden houses and brownstones. Almost all of Atlanta’s cityscape is low rise and human in scale, making it a joy to explore on foot (a pursuit which will immediately mark you at as European or very odd, or probably both.)

Big botany

Atlanta is so green, it has a tree coverage of 53.9 per cent, ranking first of all major cities in the US. And they don’t just have any trees: gorgeous pink crate myrtles are in bloom everywhere, accentuated by white magnolias and – if you look closely enough – peach trees (a fruit Georgians are famously dotty about). And the people? Well, they say Southerners are hospitable and Atlantans certainly live up to that label. Here, people make time to talk – but crucially, they also get things done. Visit any café or restaurant and you’ll find that staff have found the sweet spot between easy-going small talk and American-style speed and efficiency. So here are a few highlights of the city.

Don't miss Piedmont Park

Don’t miss Piedmont Park

Leaving the tourist attractions of The World of Coca-Cola, CNN and the Georgia Aquarium (which everyone raves about) for later, take a breather first and acclimatise to the city in the serenity of Midtown’s Piedmont Park. Gleaming in the distance, you’ll see the tall buildings of the business district, together with the W Hotel, while all around you there is beauty on display. The sophisticated landscaping – based on the Olmsted Brothers’ 1912 design – creates a huge variety of vistas, uses, activities and people.

Take the time to explore and there are surprising features everywhere. At the park’s centre is a lake, almost hidden away by the surrounding trees. There are swings to relax in and a small path leads across the water to the swimming pool. Before you get there, you’ll pass a gazebo inviting you to stop awhile and take in the view. The running track, basketball and tennis court attracts some astonishingly handsome locals who casually display their perfect physiques. On Sundays, the picnic stands play host to cookout parties, blasting R&B and hip hop out into the park. And in the back, there’s a vast expanse of mud for dogs both big and small to play in, which keeps the belabelled lifestyle gays who own them away from the cruising ground (legal waiver: there isn’t one). Best of all, if you’re into longboarding, you’ll have hours of fun on the park’s slopes and inclines, with just enough people to make slaloming around them a little bit of fun.

The Piedmont Park area is a tad gay, actually

The Piedmont Park area is a tad gay, actually

The truth about grits

If you’ve had enough or your tummy rumbles, there are a number of great cafés and restaurants nearby: Willy’s and Zocalo’s serve Mexican, and The Flying Biscuit is so renowned for its breakfast people stand in line on Sundays. Do not miss but never, ever order grits by themselves – add shrimps or frankly, anything at all to this tasteless pap. I thought my tongue was malfunctioning but in reality, I just didn’t know that this quintessential southern favourite has the consistency of glue (sadly lacking its taste). And another word of warning – your Biscuit may be airborne at this restaurant, but your wifi will stay grounded. To go online, y’all cross the road and hook yourself up for free at the Caribou coffee shop on the corner of 10th St and Piedmont Ave.

By the way, did I mention that this is the heart of Atlanta’s premier gaybourhood? Just in case the massive rainbow flag flying from Zocalo’s didn’t give the game away….

Stay tuned for more of Hotlanta’s delights in the next post!

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On reflection

Soulfood and celebrities

Auburn Avenue is the birthplace of Martin Luther King and the beating heart of black Atlanta. Round the corner is Georgia State University, a collection of concrete monoliths that are as utilitarian as they are soulless. But walk up the steps past the security guard and buried inside the building you’ll find Kenley’s Restaurant – a breakfast and lunch spot that serves a buffet of soul food at low prices. Everything apart from the food is styrofoam, cardboard or plastic. Cups, cutlery and plates are all throwaway as if the place had invested in landfill shares.

In Atlanta, everybody who is anybody has their picture taken with Kenley.

In Atlanta, everybody who is anybody has their picture taken with Kenley.

But the grub makes up for it. From Southern favourites like biscuits and grits to chicken, beef and pork sausages, baked potatoes with peppers, jumbalaya rice, bacon, eggs, Kenley has whatever your rumbling tummy desires. It’s practical, low cost food that’s freshly and lovingly made. And then you season it with synthetic margarine from a blue plastic bottle.

For those not familiar with Southern cooking, biscuits are just like scones, whereas grits are a tasteless porridge made out of corn floor-sweepings. “It tastes delicious if you put shrimps / honey / butter / hell, anything  inside”, Southerners will tell you earnestly. But for anyone outside the Dixie states, grits are best used as wallpaper paste.

A hidden gem in Georgia State University.

A hidden gem in Georgia State University.

African-American celebrities go crazy for Kenley’s fare. In the 15 years he’s been in business, he’s built up a famous following. It seems like everyone who’s someone in Atlanta’s black aristocracy has sent out for his food, maybe while recording a new album, or resting  between takes on set. The walls of the café are covered in signed photographs of Kenley, the man himself, and any celebrity you might care to mention: from Jay-Z to Ludacris, Vivica Fox to Wanda Sykes. Then there are ministers, congresswomen and other community leaders: Kenley continuously adds to his walls of fame.

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Unbeatable value: a breakfast like this will set you back just $7.

So how did he build his reputation, given that his café is tucked away from view?

“I advertise on local hip-hop, gospel and R&B stations”, he says, “and that’s the way I get my name out. I also know many people in the community here.” That seems to be an understatement.

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I ate on Ludacris’ face.

So if you happen to stop by in ATL, be sure to drop into Kenley’s to say hi – and have a taste of the food that keeps the city’s music scene going. And be sure to have your picture taken.

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