Chapter 4 Lyrix
Lyrix
By the time I made it back to the bar the next morning, the city was already awake. Street performers were setting up on corners, somebody’s grandma was selling pralines out of a basket, and the air smelled like coffee and sugar.
I was proud of myself, not just for being on time, but for looking damn good doing it. I wore a black bodysuit that hugged just right, some loose denim shorts, and my black and white Dunks. My curls were up in a puff and my lip gloss was glossier than my future.
When I walked into the bar, Maison was already there behind the counter. He looked up and gave me that slow, appreciative look that started at my shoes and worked its way up until it met my eyes.
He smiled. “Glad to see you were smart enough to wear comfortable shoes,” he said. “We got a lot of walking to do today.”
I raised a brow, smiling back. “Walking? I don’t go on vacation to work out.”
“You’ll survive. You’ll be having too much fun to notice.”
“You say that now, but if I pass out somewhere, I’m haunting you.”
“That’s cool,” he said, still grinning. “You ate yet?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I was running late. And by running late, I mean staring at the closet too long trying to figure out which outfit says ‘I’m here for a good time, not for a long time.’”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Perfect. That just made my job easier. We’ll start with food.”
I leaned against the counter. “Breakfast?”
“Brunch,” he corrected, grabbing his keys from behind the bar. “It’s New Orleans. We don’t just eat breakfast. We flirt with lunch too.”
I tilted my head, amused. “That’s supposed to sound smooth?”
He opened the door and motioned for me to follow. “Did it work?”
I smiled. “Unfortunately.”
The morning sun hit the street just right, and for the first time since I’d landed, I felt steady.. still a little reckless and unpredictable, but steady in the kind of way that felt like a good sign.
“Alright, Tourist,” he said as we started walking. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
“Oh, I’ll keep up,” I said, slipping on my shades and falling in step beside him. “Just don’t forget who you’re dealing with. I trained for this moment.”
Maison led me down a few blocks, weaving through like he was born knowing every shortcut. Music played from somewhere, the smell of food in the air, a man on the corner yelling “Blessings!” like he was handing them out.
We stopped in front of this little spot tucked between two buildings. No flashy sign. No line out the door. Just a worn covering and blues music floating through a cracked window.
I blinked. “This is it?”
He smirked. “This is it.”
Inside, it was cozy. Walls the color of butter, a few locals sipping coffee and reading newspapers like it was still 1998. He greeted every employee by name. “Morning, Miss Shirley. What’s up, Big Tony? Tell your mama I still want that gumbo recipe.”
They all smiled at him like he was family.
I didn’t say anything. I was there for the vibes. It was his city, his world. I told myself to just shut the fuck up and go with the adventure.
Still, I couldn’t help but whisper, “This… isn’t what I pictured.”
In my head, I was expecting some lit brunch spot with a DJ in the corner, girls in matching sets passing out mimosas and pretending to take orders between twerking breaks. But that place smelled like cornbread and tradition.
Before I could say anything else, an older woman came from behind the counter and walked straight to Maison with a smile. “Baby, I ain’t seen you in weeks.”
He stood up and hugged her tight. “You know I had to come through eventually, Miss Geneva.”
She patted his cheek and said, “Someone’ll be with y’all shortly to take your order.”
“Appreciate you,” he said, grinning.
We sat, and when I looked up, he was already watching me.
“What?” I asked, pretending to focus on the menu that was laminated and slightly sticky.
He leaned back, smirking. “You thought I was gonna take you to one of them brunch spots you see all over social media, huh?”
I tried to play it cool. “I mean… maybe a little.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. You’re in my city now. I’m showing you the places that live in the culture. The spots the locals go that tourists know nothing about.”
I smiled, resting my chin on my hand. “Noted. I just hope the food is good.”
A middle-aged woman with big hair and bigger energy walked up to our table holding a notepad. “Morning, y’all. Hey, Maison, baby. How’s your grandma doing?”
“She’s good,” he said, smiling that easy smile again. “Still fussing at everybody like she runs the city.”
The woman laughed. “That sounds like her.” Then she turned to me with a warm grin. “And who’s this pretty thing?”
“This my new friend,” he said, gesturing my way. “She’s from out of town. I’m giving her a tour of our city today.”
Her smile widened, eyes twinkling. “Oh, you’re in for a time, baby. Maison knows all the good spots, especially the ones that’ll get you in just enough trouble.”
I laughed, and Maison just shook his head like he’d been caught.
She glanced between us. “Y’all wanna order, or you want me to just hook her up with our favorites?”
“Yeah, hook us up,” he said without hesitation. “And make sure she’s got a water too. Her taste buds might lose their mind from all this flavor.”
I pretended to roll my eyes, grinning. “Wow, not too much now.”
The woman laughed, tapping his shoulder with her order pad. “I gotcha, handsome. Coming right up.” Then she walked off, humming to herself.
Maison leaned back in his chair, that same faint smirk on his face. “You trust me yet?”
I tilted my head, pretending to think. “Not entirely. But the smell in here is making a strong case.”
“Good answer,” he said, stretching his arms out. “I told you, you won’t find this place on social media, but you’ll remember it longer than any of those fancy spots.”
“Noted,” I said, smiling at him. “If I end up loving it, I’ll make sure to post it on my Instagram just to piss you off.”
“You do that, and every local in the city gone come after you.”
A few minutes later, the same waitress came back. Another woman followed behind her, both of them balancing trays that looked like Thanksgiving had come early. The smell hit me first. It was savory, buttery, spicy, and smoky all at once.
“Lord have mercy,” I whispered. “Did y’all cook for the whole block?”
The waitress just laughed. “Baby, we don’t do light portions around here.
” She started setting plate after plate on the table until there was barely room for the napkins.
When they finished, she wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Alright, Maison, I’ll let you do the honors.
Tell your friend what she’s about to experience. ”
Maison grinned and leaned back like a man proud of his choices.
“You see this right here?” he said, pointing to the plate in front of me.
“That’s catfish and grits. You don’t come down here and eat brunch without getting catfish and grits.
Shrimp and grits are good too, but ain’t nothing like that crispy, seasoned catfish. It’s got soul.”
He wasn’t lying. The catfish looked like it had been fried by somebody who prayed over the grease first—golden brown, edges curled up just right, sitting on a bed of creamy grits. I could smell the seasoning before I even leaned closer. It smelled like butter and garlic.
Then he pointed to another plate with thin slices of meat glistening under the light. “That right there is duck bacon.”
I blinked. “Duck bacon?”
He grinned, clearly amused by my expression. “Yeah. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
I almost said what the fuck, but the shit looked too good for me to even question.
Next was a stack of pancakes with fluffy, golden, edges, crisped up like they were cooked by somebody’s great-grandma who didn’t measure a damn thing. They were topped with powdered sugar, syrup, and—another piece of catfish.
I pointed. “Why is there catfish on the pancakes?”
He laughed. “Don’t question it. Just taste it.”
“Catfish and pancakes?” I said, still staring. “Y’all are unhinged.”
“Unhinged and blessed,” he said, grinning.
Then he nodded toward the final dish. It was a golden omelet, thick and folded perfectly, with a little bit of sauce leaking from the inside.
“This right here,” he said, tapping the plate lightly, “is my go-to. My favorite. An omelet stuffed with crawfish étouffée.”
I froze. “Stuffed with what?”
“Crawfish étouffée,” he repeated, proud. “You came to Louisiana. We don’t play with food.”
I looked at the table again, completely mesmerized. Everything shimmered under a thin layer of steam, smelling like flavor, history, and regret for every bland meal I’d ever eaten in my life.
It all looked so good I almost teared up. “This feels spiritual.”
He laughed. “It is.”
“It also sounds like I’m gonna leave fifteen pounds heavier,” I said, picking up my fork.
He leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Baby, that’s how you know it’s good.”
I didn’t give a damn. I was ready to eat.
I picked up my fork, took a deep breath, and went in.
First bite: catfish and grits. Listen. I don’t know what kind of seasoning séance they performed in that kitchen, but the flavor hit me like a gospel note.
The fish was crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and those grits had just the right hint of spice.
My eyes closed on instinct. My soul left my body and started singing background for Anita Baker.
I didn’t even realize I’d made a noise until Maison started laughing. “You alright over there?”
I shook my head slowly, fork still in midair. “No. Because why would y’all do this to people?”
He grinned. “That good, huh?”
“That good?” I said, already going in for another bite. “Maison, this food is emotionally manipulative. I might call my ex just to tell him I forgive him.”
He laughed so hard he had to lean back in his seat. “Don’t do that. We don’t want him thinking it’s him that healed you.”
I pointed my fork at him. “You right. It’s the catfish.”