OUT WITH THE OLD & IN WITH THE NEW: SOHO SOUTH CAFÉ LEADS THE FOODIE MARCH ON THE OLD SOUTH
I love Georgia. From the mountains of the north to the ocean of the east to…whatever is in the southwest, I believe that my state is one of the most storied and scenic places on the planet. Though its beauty is undeniable, Georgia’s history is scarred with bloody battles in our not-so-distant past. For example, in 1864 in his March to the Sea, General Tecumseh Sherman marched from Atlanta to Savannah after burning Atlanta to the ground, driving out the Confederate forces before reaching Savannah, and forcing the remaining strongholds to fold under the immense pressure of Union destruction.
Sherman’s March to the Sea is indicative of how things tend to change in Savannah (only under undeniable shifts in circumstance) and its culinary climate is no different. Ten years ago, while Atlanta’s food scene was beginning to blossom into something different than diners, chain restaurants, and high-end steak houses, Savannah was still very much a stronghold of the food of yesteryear. Now that Atlanta’s foodie culture is in full swing, Savannah is starting to show signs of changing too. Hip new restaurants are starting to pop up all over the city, and with new-age Southern restaurant moguls such as Hugh Acheson starting to show their faces around town, the certainty of a cookery revolution is palpable.
One of the leaders in the march against the old Savannah gastronomic norms is Soho South Café. Situated on my favorite street in Savannah, Soho sits perched on the corner of Liberty and Whitaker Streets, shaded for most of the day by the colossal oaks in the median of Liberty.
Soho’s decor is absolutely gorgeous. Made up mostly of repurposed furniture, the entire restaurant reminded me of a sophisticated Mad Hatter’s tea party. One wall is composed completely of a patchwork of old doors and windows; the back wall is mainly two massive garage doors that look like they would have that refreshing squeak-and-rumble when they open; and the windows on the west wall resemble the industrial panes you’d expect to see in a trendy loft apartment. The exposed ceiling is full of factory-styled duct-work and crawling support rafters. And though the furnishings are inviting, the interior design plays second fiddle to the deliciousness of the dishes.
We started out with the Scone of the Day and an iced Americano. Soho proudly brews Lavazza Espresso, and boy-oh-boy do they brew it right. The top of my ice, lined with frothy crema, resembled Tybee’s shores, and our waitress didn’t add water to my brunch fuel, which made for a perfectly crafted espresso. This was a delicious drink; I had two. Then I had the coffee trembles, but that’s beside the point.
Since Executive Chef Brandy Williamson has made some changes to the inner workings of Soho in the last few months, the restaurant is no longer open for dinner. Instead, Williamson is choosing to focus on weekday lunches and weekend brunches, and her Scone of the Day is a major weekend draw. Once I hear about a specialty pastry, I have to put it in my belly, and Williamson’s bacon and chive scone did not disappoint. The scone is one of my least favorite pastries, because I generally find it stale tasting and in desperate need of some moisture, but this scone was much softer and more croissant-like than any I’d had previously. I attributed the texture to the pastry’s freshness, as it came to the table still piping steam and no doubt directly out of the oven.
The bacon in the scone was crispy, and the chives were fresh without overpowering the palate. I do not want to downplay the ingredients in this scone, but the actual pastry itself was incredible. Flaky and soft but not greasy, it left some room for generous buttering, which, being from Savannah, I never shy away from. With only one scone to split between my fiancée and myself, we were staring at each other after the feeding frenzy for about 30 seconds in utter anticipation of our main entrees: a Monte Cristo sandwich and the Brunch Burger.
I’ll start with the Monte Cristo sandwich. It’s a brunch staple, and if you’re a fan of brunch, you’ve almost certainly eaten one and felt guilty afterward. As Soho’s menu puts it, the Monte Cristo is “ham, turkey, bacon, and Swiss on griddled brioche dusted with confectioner’s sugar, [and] served with strawberry sauce.”
Good Lord. The Brunch Burger. It’s comprised of a generously hand-pattied hamburger steak on top of bacon…on top of a Belgian waffle. It came with an egg of the customer’s choosing, so I did what any self-respecting food lover would do: I added an extra egg and told ’em to poach those suckers and throw ’em on top. The pile of greasy goodness was made extra messy by adding a generous helping of maple syrup
When I broke those poached eggs over the beautiful monstrosity that lay underneath, the flavors that emerged were something out of an H.P. Lovecraft short story. As the richness of the poached egg leaked across the expanse of beef, down past the salt flat of crispy bacon and into the syrupy pockets of the creamy Belgian waffle, I felt a tear come to my eye. This is the thing that 6’5” brunch lovers dream about.
Don’t let the décor fool you. This is no dainty asparagus sandwich or biscuits and gravy made with tofu. Oh no. This was a brunch plate made for the Charles Bronsons of the world. This breakfast made me want to take a 3-hour nap and have an honor-induced gunfight while riding horseback all at the same time. This was a meal of champions.
The star of the dish was most certainly the hamburger steak. I tend to steer clear of hamburgers and hamburger steaks because I like them a bit underdone; anything over medium is a no-go for me. This whopping mound-o’-meat was cooked perfectly. The entirety of the dish was heavy, so I don’t recommend it for the faint-of-stomach, but for a guy my size, this was the perfect guilty brunch order. As I finished the entire plate, I looked up to my fiancée, who was watching me scarf the last fork-full with a look of respectful horror on her face. It took a real man to eat all of that, and she knew it. She would never admit it, but I’m sure she looks at me with a bit more godly fear than she did before we sat down.
