Sandra’s Next Generation is a soul food restaurant, about a twenty minute walk from New Haven’s center on Congress Avenue. It’s received excellent reviews. I thought I would walk over, check it out, and return that evening for dinner. Assuming that I was getting close, I asked three men standing in front of a deli, “Excuse me is Sandra’s nearby?” One of the men immediately said, “I’m walking that way, I can show you.” My guide’s attire was shabby, but his demeanor was kind. “Have you eaten there?” I asked. “Sure,” he replied.” “What’s good?” “The fried chicken and ribs, none better. But everything’s good.” We didn’t walk far before a man in a suit with tails, wearing reflective sunglasses and shiny shoes asked if we had seventy-two cents. We both said we didn’t, and the well dressed man walked on. My guide and I continued a few more paces. “Do you have fifty cents?” he turned toward me and wanted to know. “No, sorry.” I replied. Within three blocks we were at Sandra’s door. He walked in and told a young woman working there that he had brought me, seemingly to curry favor.

My guide and I said our goodbyes. I noticed he walked back in the direction he came.

Sandra’s Next Generation has simple decor. The emphasis is on the food. Hot pans with candied yams, collard greens, black eye peas, fried okra, corn bread and much more were displayed through the glass counter. Nearby was a refrigerated case with deviled eggs, homemade cakes, banana pudding, sweet potato pie, home made teas with fresh mint and sliced peaches in quart size containers. Everything looked fresh and wonderful. The staff was welcoming, answering my questions, even offering a taste of the sides. I said I’d be back that evening.

Later that afternoon, I met Marjorie. We spoke with one another as if we had met years, instead of moments before. She was working in a shop in New Haven’s center and I had ventured in for a look. One thing led to another, soon we were making dinner plans. I suggested Sandra’s for that evening. Marjorie has lived in a town just a few miles away, for forty-two years. She had never heard of it, but she was game.

We arrived around 8pm. The weather was warm and dry, the street quiet, we sat at a table outside. The staff, a mix of Sandra’s family and locals, made us feel at home. We ordered. A heaping plate of fried chicken, ribs, mac and cheese, collared greens, and corn bread arrived. The portion was intended for one. The food was divine. We licked our fingers, swooned over each bite and still had food left over to take home.