Itinerary:
Friday Night
- Catch 8 PM flight to Memphis, Tennessee
- Pass out at airport (heartbreak) hotel at 1 1 o’clock
Saturday
- Wake up at 9:30 AM
- Breakfast “In the Ghetto” (Elvis, 1969)
- 12 PM - 3 PM: Graceland
- 4 PM: Miss Steve Martin at the Peabody Hotel by ten minutes
- 5 PM: Check out Beale St.
- 6:30 PM: Check out the Lorraine Motel, aka the National Civil Rights Museum
- 7:30 PM: Return to Beale St. for the evening
Sunday
- Wake up at 4:45 AM
- Get on 6 AM flight back to Chicago
Lorraine Motel, Memphis (2018).
When I was a junior in high school, my Father and I endeavored to undertake a 1,000-mile road trip so that I could visit colleges. Having visited Vanderbilt in Nashville and finding ourselves with some time to kill, I suggested driving most of the way across the state of Tennessee simply to see Elvis’ house. By my high school logic, we could either stay in Nashville and go to the Grand Ol’ Opry or some other lame thing, or ELVIS. Obviously, I chose Elvis. To this day, I’m still not sure how I convinced my Dad that driving the completely wrong direction just to see Graceland was a good idea.
Nevertheless, after a long day of driving to the western Tennessee border, we arrived in Memphis. It being around 10 PM and us being tired and hungry, we asked the hotel concierge for his favorite barbecue place. Pointing us down the block and then into an alley, we stumbled upon Memphis’ famous Rendezvous. That hotel concierge knew what he was doing! To date, I’ve never had better barbecue and often feel the urge to return to Memphis solely for more barbecue.
The King, standingstills.com
Following the prior week’s free-park-day-fiasco-turned-incredible-sunset in Yosemite, and with flights to Memphis looking good again, now was my chance to return to the Rendezvous. Packing up everything I’d need to eat good barbecue and visit Graceland, we took off after work on Friday and found ourselves south of the Mason-Dixon Line around 10 PM. After a delayed ride to the hotel, we fell asleep, exhausted.
Around noon on Saturday, a young man stumbled into the Graceland entrance plaza. Holding a take-out box in one hand, he slumped onto a park bench before devouring chicken and waffles with his bare hands. The man behaved like a complete savage— his hands were coated in syrup as he fingered soggy waffles into his mouth with one hand, his off-hand wielding a crusty chicken finger. Breathing syrup and grease rather than oxygen and nitrogen, he ate ravenously. All the while, this creature grumbled and groaned unintelligibly. I think he might have twitched a little. You could easily mistake this stumbling, zombie-like mess for your average homeless man, but you’d be mistaken. That wretch, sitting at Graceland forcing syrup-soaked chicken down his throat faster than you can say “Love Me Tender,” was myself.
Let’s take a step back and understand how I ended up a chicken ‘n’ waffles zombie on the doorstep of Elvis’ mansion.
Unlike most of my trips, I actually got to sleep in a bit on Saturday. We had plans to tour Graceland at 11:30 and that was about it. I figured after Graceland we’d go to the Rendezvous and then spend the rest of the day wandering around. Thus, it seemed completely reasonable to me that I could sleep in until 9 AM or so and then go get some delicious chicken ‘n’ waffles. After all, Graceland was only a mile or two away from our hotel. Unfortunately, I made a critical error in my calculations and violated the central tenet of travel planning; I forgot to always give myself twice as much time as I thought I’d need.
Leaving for breakfast at 9:45, I figured we’d get to the restaurant around 10 AM, eat for an hour, and then arrive a few minutes early at Graceland. That was a cute idea. Problem one: there weren’t a ton of breakfast places near our hotel. We stayed out by the airport due to its proximity to Elvis’ house. Staying near the airport also allowed us to sleep in that marginal bit later before our 6 AM flight home Sunday. Scouring Yelp for ideas, we found a number of poorly reviewed restaurants, none of which mentioned offering chicken ‘n’ waffles. To most sane people, this probably wouldn’t be an problem. I, however, am not sane, and set off on a crusade to find some authentic, greasy, crispy, sweet & savory, chicken ‘n’ waffles. So I continued scrolling and scrolling and scrolling for anything that looked remotely palatable and resembled chicken ‘n’ waffles. Tina’s Diner? No chicken ‘n’ waffles. Jumbo’s Gourmet Saloon? Not a chance. Egg King? What are the odds Egg King serves anything besides eggs? Popeye’s? Has chicken, but waffles on waffles. Let’s try again— maybe Egg King will serve that weirdly fantastic combination of deep-fried dough and crispy poultry? I checked their website again. Navigating deep into the heart of the menu, past myriad egg options, lay the chicken ‘n’ waffles. Those three (-ish) words glowed like the Aztec Golden Idol of Fertility from Indiana Jones. I’d discovered the treasure I so dearly coveted that not even a comedic cameo from Sean Connery could have gotten in my way.
(Maybe it could, but that’s besides the point).
Egg King to Go, Memphis (2018).
Rushing, I hopped in the nearest rickshaw and— grabbing my whip and cowboy hat— told Short Round to step on it. I had to get to Egg King before the Nazis and secure the chicken ‘n’ waffles. Failure would result in the complete destruction of Western civilization. Move over Ark of the Covenant, imagine if the Nazis got their hands on chicken ‘n’ waffles! Short Round whipped through packed markets sending patrons tumbling into various stalls. Exotic fruits tumbled through the alley as we careened into various shops. Plowing through a row of amphorae packed with the finest spices, our rickshaw exploded out of the market and into the Egg King parking lot. We’d left behind a trail of ultimate destruction— cinnamon rained down from the sky as startled shoppers pulled themselves from the carnage. None of that mattered, we’d made it to Egg King.
In reality, we quietly waited a few minutes for our Uber driver Tammy (who quite resembled [fat butter cook lady from TV]). Tammy politely told us that we were in a terrible neighborhood before gently slowing down for the red light. She turned her blinker on as she calmly pulled into the Egg King parking lot.
Our giddy hostess quickly seated us in a booth upon arrival. Other patrons milled over their food. The restaurant was highly reviewed and quite busy; we took the last booth in the place. Our hostess told us to wait one minute while she served the table next door. Indiana Jones waits for no one! Except, of course, chicken ‘n’ waffles. Fortunately, our waitress soon returned to ask us what we’d like that morning. No sooner did the words leave her lips than I had blurted out “CHKN N WFFLES” as fast as I could. Clearly understanding my urgency to taste that delicious breakfast dish, she scurried off to place our order.
So we waited. We talked about our excitement to see Graceland and dine at the Rendezvous later. We waited some more. And some more. And thirty minutes more. I quickly grew impatient; you have to imagine the following scenario: the Joker has just blown a hole in the side of a bank and kidnapped Alfred. He’s speeding away, but you, Batman, are stuck at the DMV— spot 43 to be exactー because your license has expired. The Joker is making a break for it, but the Batmobile has got a boot on it and you’ve got an invalid driver’s license. Worse yet, they tell you that you can’t wear a mask for your picture. Now you need to discreetly leave the DMV, squat behind the Batmobile and covertly change into a suit, get back in the end of the line as Bruce Wayne, and wait for them to call your name. The kicker? They won’t even let you smile in your photo.
That’s essentially how I felt as we neared minute forty on the chicken ‘n’ waffles countdown. At this point, not only was I starving, but we only had about twenty minutes until our scheduled tour at Graceland. I’m not sure why exactly the breakfast service took so long, the only reasonable explanation would probably be the Nazis and the Joker. Joking Nazis? (No that’s not funny— you can’t make jokes about the Nazis). Regardless, our order morphed from sit-down to take-out as we eagerly awaited Memphis’ famous soul food. You know things aren’t going your way when you’ve paid your bill before your food has arrived.
Author, prior to finding park bench.
As our take-out order arrived we ordered an Uber. Anxious, I bit into a piece of chicken. My excitement quickly turned into horror as I chewed that first chicken tender. Tougher than leather, the chicken completely stale. The chicken and waffles I was so worked up about turned out to be a bigger let down than Roma. Eating stale chicken out of a foam container in the back of an Uber on the way to Graceland, I’m sure I made quite a sight to see. Much to my surprise, and to the chagrin of my Uber driver, I quickly learned that chicken ‘n’ waffles makes a less-than-ideal finger-food. Unfortunately, I had less than five minutes to eat a container full of sub-par chicken ‘n’ waffles.
Thus, I found myself scarfing down disgustingly dry chicken on a bench in the Graceland entrance.
Lingering outside the start of the tour until I regained even the smallest resemblance of human dignity, I discovered just how rose-tinted were my high school memories of Graceland. That is to say, upon reaching the start of the line I might as well have been in line at the MCL Cafeteria for the midday special. Graceland was a hyped-up geriatric facility. Bringing the average age on the tour down by about 30 years, we were two of (maybe) three that hadn’t seen the King himself, live on tour.
Another change from my prior experience at Graceland was the lack of human tour guides. When I toured the mansion before, a knowledgeable and corny tour guide walked us through the house, explaining all of the minute details; for instance, the tongue-in-cheek oil painting of Elvis’ father that Elvis’ father gifted to Elvis. Since my prior experience, the good folk down in Memphis invested quite a bit in bringing dear ol’ Elvis into the 21st Century. Much to my delight, whoever was tasked with modernizing the tour (probably a disgruntled tour guide about to lose his job), had a funny sense of humor; Graceland replaced human tour guides with iPads.
Elvis’ microphone, Memphis (2018).
Each and every day, hundreds, if not thousands, of octogenarians are sent off on their own into Elvis’ home with only an iPad and headphones. Imagine thousands of chickens with their heads cut off, or that scene from Zoolander when they try to use a computer, or congressmen trying to pass a law— no one had a clue what to do. Almost as soon as the iPads were handed out, cries of “How do I turn this thing on!?” rung out through the air. Old people wandered around with unplugged headphones and kept trying to turn up the volume. One lady tried to throw away her iPad as she didn’t need “a damned computer to tell her what to do!” All this, before the tour even started.
THE Pink Cadillac, Memphis (2018).
By the end of our senile extravaganza, we’d been inundated with Elvis. We saw his home, his horses, his cars, his guns, his planes, and most importantly, his aging fans struggle to use iPads. Time for some good Memphis BBQ. Although apparently subject to great debate amongst native Memphians, I headed directly to the the best barbecue joint in town, the Rendezvous. Admittedly, I’ve been to no other barbecues in Memphis, but no one said that “best barbecue in Memphis” was an unbiased, scientific accolade.
Nestled away in a dingy alley, the Rendezvous is quite literally a hole in the wall. Past the dumpster, underneath the fire escape, and adjacent to the abandoned collection of Bird scooters lies the entrance to the “Charlie Vergos’ Rendezvous”. Heading down the brick staircase feels akin to descending into a musky speakeasy. Neon signs, naval replicas, flint-lock rifles, and a museums-worth of oddities fill the walls and walkways of the place. Strangers sit hunched over their plates of ribs as waiters navigate the labyrinth of tables, memorabilia, and satiated patrons. In the back, smoke belches out of a room-sized furnace— whole pigs roast on a massive wheel of spits.
Rendezvous, Memphis (2018).
Among all the trinkets and hustle-and-bustle it’s quite easy to miss a humble collection of photographs: all of the Presidents who have dined at the place. G.W. even hosted a luncheon at the Rendezvous. It’s quite easy to understand why— the food is amazing. We ordered a full set of ribs, beans, and (look at menu to confirm last side) and probably could have eaten more. The Rendezvous’ dry rub is one of a kind— forming a crisp outer layer with a juicy section of pork underneath.
In order to avoid a massive food coma post-Rendezvous, there’s only one option: head to Beale St. We made a quick detour into the Peabody hotel (narrowly missing my idol Steve Martin, incidentally) and then walked over to the Lorraine Motel before heading out to Beale St. On a side note, Memphis did a terrific job of maintaining a memorial and museum to MLK Jr. at the former motel, well worth a visit for anyone visiting Memphis. Anyhow, back on Beale St, things were starting to pick up. Essentially Nashville’s Broadway without the country music, drunken revelers packed the blues bars and spilled into the street. Performers ran around doing flips and leaps, often resulting in comical near-collisions with the drunk people milling about.
Beale Street, Memphis (2018).
After dipping in and out of various different bars— each with its own live band grooving away— we noticed some commotion tucked away in a shaded corner of the street. Off to one side of Beale St. lies Handy Park, where a free, jazz-inspired band entertained an eclectic cast of characters. Most drunken patrons would easily miss the spot; pitch-black and obscured by large column, the only way one could have seen the band is from the small string of lights illuminating the gazebo they used as a stage.
Despite the fact that Beale St.’s glitzier bars and clubs obfuscated Handy Park, the area teemed with life. One man, whom I dub “Mr. Dancing Shoes,” hopped and grooved around in front of the band. He tapped his foot to his right, spun back to his left, twisted his hips around, and wagging his finger to the beat. Mr. Dancing Shoes was a one-man groove machine. In stark contrast, another guy, looking like a sleazy cross between Stevie Wonder and Joe Pesci, lingered around. Rocking a fedora and sunglasses, his ancient leather jacket reeked of the cigarettes he chain-smoked. This diminutive, wanna-be pimp tried to get every lady in the place to dance with him. Starting at one end of the park, he beckoned towards each and every woman in his vicinity, no matter her appearance, race, age— he didn’t discriminate. Extending one arm outwards as if to say “I wanna hold your hand,” and motioning for the women to come to him with the other, he relied solely on body language to ply women out of their seats; his mouth was preoccupied with his cigarettes. Needless to say, he had exactly zero takers— truly disappointing, as I’m positive his dance moves would have been nothing short of spastic.
Memphis is still as I remembered it from High School, a bit of a diamond in the rough. Full of life, good food, and fascinating history, Memphis often gets overlooked by tourists for it’s more superficial cousin, Nashville. Yet, in my mind Memphis remains a superior version of “Music City”; Memphis possesses a soulful spirit and distinctively southern style that sets it apart from other cities. Likewise, it’s Blues bars certainly beat out Nashville’s country-inspired honky-tonks. There is, however, room for debate over the superiority of Rendezvous ribs over Haddie B’s Hot Chicken.
