Pomegranates Gratuity

First and foremost, residency interviewing is fun. Second and quasi-foremost, Atlanta is more fun. As you might have guessed, that's the Santiago Calatrava Bridge in Buenos Aires and Forbidden City in Beijing. They all have something incredible in common now.

Its great to be back in Black Mecca. The sun is shining, the breeze is still with ephemeral emblazened maple leaves, and the night is filled with the expectant soulful elegance. Though, as most know, I thoroughly enjoyed my Morehouse years, it seems as though some of Atlanta's fine leadership got together and said, "Yeah, this city is fun, now lets make it undeniable."

Today, actually WALKED (as in pedestrian activity) all over the apparently vibrant Midtown Atlanta. As my iPod augmented my already verdant sense of the city (I now can confidently ascribe it as such) with the cacophonous melodies of London's Lady Sovereign through my white earbuds, my eyes burned with desire over sleek modern potential psychotherapy couches, ached for fresh healthy alternatives to Taco Bell, and longed to comfort my covetous stomach in the varied fusion and American restaurants.

One diserves particular mention. No no no. You misunderstand. Its name is One; One Midtown Kitchen is its extended name (vis-à-vis Egypt and the Arab Republic of Egypt). Its entrance glows a soft purple and is found in a pretty nondescript part of town betraying its superchic and urbane interior. The food? Now, let's reestablish that nothing could compare to my Uncle Wayne's barbecue. There is a certain emotional element that can only be conjured with knowing someone's soul for most of your living days. It becomes an expression of love in addition to tickling every gastric pleasure center.

While I know no one at One, they somehow managed to come pretty damn close with their Steak and Frites. It was that same exhilirating guilty pleasure experienced from a Ribka Halloween party at 4am, a first kiss in the style of the French with a short-term fling (from hearsay of course), enjoying while on call a novel by Zadie Smith, delicious delicious Zadie Smith (from experience certainly). Dripping with a sweetly tangy sauce of existential pleasure topping a hot, crispy fries whose inside is softer than your grandmother's heart on Christmas. Both were sliced with a supernatural perfection as if to suggest that our Heavenly Father is in the kitchen with the sort of furvor reserved for Abramoff lawyers. It was good.

Then it got better.

Some background: I went to this restaurant courtesy of the residents of the psychiatry program I'm applying for here in Atlanta (kudos to whomever chose). I was enjoying all of this in the company of four other applicants and two current residents. I was trying to hold back my more base instincts but my civility gave way as the pomegranate sorbet casually and confidently arrived on a bright rectangular plate. I used to mentally chastise those glowing, sweaty, new couples in Houston lounges and bars but felt in league with them as I softly (and noticeably) moaned with deep delight as I thoroughly enjoyed every spoonful of sorbet.

Honestly and without question, the best sorbet I've had and in the top three of best meals experienced and now joins Peking Duck in Beijing, and Medallón de Lomo Tenderloin at Cabañas las Lilas in Buenos Aires. I recommend the restaurant to all. My cousin Trey, who has certainly NEVER disappointed me in restaurant recommendations, has told me that the owner's second restaurant Two Urban Licks, is even better. I shutter to think what would become of me if I went.

Oh, Atlanta. You've grown up and have gotten a hell of a lot more sexier.