This is how Wikipedia describes Mashama Bailey:

“Mashama Bailey is an American chef trained in French technique who is currently cooking Southern cuisine. In 2019, Bailey was awarded a James Beard Award as best chef of the southeast.”

Accurate? Yes. But also devoid of both context and soul.

Mashama Bailey is a cooking goddess (to me). I was told about her exploits via my homie and expert Gullah Geechee culinarian, Chef BJ Dennis. I asked if he had ever heard of this restaurant in Savannah called “The Grey”. He said that he had and that the food was the brainchild of this Black woman named Mashama.

“You ever met her?”

“Nah. I can count the number of times I’ve been to Savannah, Bruh”.

“Word. That sista is doin’ some good work down dey. And she good people.”

It would be a year later before I would take him up on that offer. And to be honest, it wasn’t even my doing. A different Charleston based culinarian brought Mashama back to my consciousness. Tracey Richardson, the founder and face of my favorite hot sauce brand of all time–Lillie’s of Charleston–asked me if I had ever been to The Grey.

“No ma’am. I haven’t. But BJ has told me nothing but good things about it.”

In typical Tracey fashion, she lights up and gives me the biggest smile (at least, I image her flashing her signature million-dollar smile, this conversation was conducted via cellular phone), “Oh well, you gotta try it! In fact, me and Jamel [her husband, business partner, and food scientist to the stars] are going. You want to join us?”

“Shit yeah!”

I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just say that every good thing you have heard or read about The Grey is true! Unless you heard that it was gross because that’s certainly not true. In fact, if someone told you that The Grey was trash, I’m inclined to believe that person is a hater. To be there, to taste the food, to learn about the story, to understand that at the center of this low-key yet luxurious converted Greyhound Terminal is a Black woman–named Mashama–is almost too much to take.

More than the food or the environment, I think what I appreciate the most is how she, through the power of food, challenged my biases! She changed my perspective on what “Black fancy” can be. She inadvertently expanded my definition of what soul food is by showing me what it can become. She took food I was familiar with and reconfigured it in ways I’d never thought of. That’s why she’s out here winning James Beard awards!

Through my work with Black Food Fridays, I felt as if I had seen almost all types of culinary Blackness. From hole-in-the-wall dives to dirt road BBQ shacks to white table cloth joints. I had seen Black people make sushi, helm world renowned bakeries, invent new beverages, and create nationally distributed ice cream brands. And in a crazy way, The Grey encompasses elements from all of those spots but in a way that I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of experiencing. The food was both familiar and new. It tasted like home and, also, like nothing I had ever tasted before. I wasn’t just satisfied from a stomach standpoint, it was as if my soul was stirred in the process. To say that the meal was worth the 2 hour drive would be the understatement of the year. My life as a Black person who highlights Black owned restaurants and the people who run them has forever been changed because I dined in this establishment.

Which makes this missed connection so heartbreaking.

On a random Wednesday morning, as I was preparing for a weekly staff meeting, my phone starts going off. A quick glance at the cracked privacy screen shows the name “Clay Williams”. Then the name “Paola Valez” pops up. Then “Osayi Endolyn”. And now, I’m shook-ish.

All three of these luminaries texting me–at the same time–on a regular ass Wednesday morning; what are the odds? So I figured something must have happened and braced myself for the unknown…

“You got nominated for a James Beard award!!” says Paolo’s text bubble.

My response of “YOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Seriously?” does not properly convey the cocktail of mixed emotions that suddenly appeared in the pit of my tummy. Picture me in an old pair of mesh, maroon basketball shorts, a black tank top, and Crocs staring at my phone with equal parts shock and accomplishment. Mind you, this all took place literally 10 minutes before my staff meeting! So while I would have liked to spend the next few hours calling all of my friends and practicing my acceptance speech, I couldn’t. I had to get ready to tell my team about my community outreach efforts over the last week. This was April 27th.

Fast forward to June and I find myself walking the streets of Chicago in a recently re-released pair of retro Nike Air Trainer 1s (literally one of the greatest sneakers ever created, word to John Gotty) trying to find the location of Chef JJ’s unofficial yet infinitely more lit James Beard Media Awards afterparty. Full disclosure: I don’t know Chef JJ. But someone from his team sent me an invitation and while I was tired, there was no way I was going to miss this shit! So I took the 35 minute walk from my hotel to the venue. Yes it was 11 o’clock at night but this green activity ring wasn’t going to close itself [shout out to my Apple Watch wearers out there]!

I get to the spot–a bar turned club for the night named SKETCH–and it’s dumb packed. You know that Lil Jon lyric where he’s like, “To the windoooooooows, to the walls! To the sweat drop down my balls!”? The scene was that lyric, personified. I had already registered so I walked up to the front door, showed them my phone…and was promptly told that the venue was at capacity.

“No worries,” I thought. I needed a break after that long ass walk anyway.

So I waited. And waited. And waited. 20 minutes later, I still hadn’t been granted entry. And by the looks of things, I wasn’t going to get in anytime soon. Some people who work for the James Beard Foundation were able to get in. Understandable. Other people, who just seem to be better connected, also got in. Understandable as well but also…now I’m thinking this whole capacity thing is a bit more fluid that I originally thought. With that in mind, I decided to take leisurely stroll down the street. 1) to see what else may be jumping off on Chicago Avenue and 2) So I wouldn’t be standing in front of this place looking like a lost puppy, waiting for someone to adopt them.

After locating a bench(!), I decided to sit my weary body down. I actually contemplated calling an Uber, washing my hands of the entire litutation, and going to bed. Me leaving was not because I was upset that I couldn’t get in or that other people got in before me. It was because I had been running around since landing at O’Hear International the day before and ya boy was TIDE! With that in mind, I came up with a compromise for myself: I’ll walk back to the party, try one more time to gain entry, and if I still couldn’t get in THEN I’d call the Uber. Aight, so I walk back to SKETCH and this time, there isn’t a line to get in. “Great,” I say to myself, “I can finally make my way inside.” Wrong! I was told to wait. I took a deep breath and said, “Ok”. I wasn’t about to make a scene but damn, what was the point of me registering if I can’t get in this bitch?

Just then, this tall Black woman, flanked by either one or two white dudes (I’m not gonna lie, I wasn’t really checking for them), walks up to the entrance of the aforementioned SKETCH. At the time I wasn’t really paying attention to how it was as I was just focused on getting into this party. What I do remember is that her hair was long, waving in the imaginary breeze like this was a goddamn music video. And it was shiny with a gloss that only accompanies some new/very well done braids. This majestic woman stood right next to me, looked in my direction, and nodded. She may have spoken to me but I don’t recall. I do remember looking up and nodding back, my hands folded as I lean on a support column. Still waiting for my chance to venture into this makeshift land of turn-up!

Of course she got in and I didn’t. While I couldn’t place her, she certainly seemed important. That is to say, there was an aura of importance that flowed from her direction. And as I said before, the capacity for this venue seemed to bend to the will of clout. Even though I was now a James Beard nominee, I’m still very new to the game, and thus had zero clout at this bar full of “somebodies”. But it was apparent that she did NOT lack in the clout category. Thus, I continued to wait. Meanwhile my eyes followed those flowing braids as they swayed into the mouth of SKETCH, only to be swallowed up by the gratuitous trap music emanating from the bowels of this beast of a party.

I hadn’t thought of that moment until a few days ago when I was looking through photos of the James Beard weekend and *gasp* I saw her! She of noticeable height and shiny, (I presume) brand new braids. In the caption, it said “Mashama Bailey” and with that recognition, I shed a solitary tear. This is not to say that she would have stopped to engage in a deep ass conversation with me at the entrance of an industry afterparty. And even if she did, I’m not under any illusion that we would become fast friends. Just because she’s cool with BJ and Tracey does not give me the audacity to expect an instantaneous bond. But damn, SHE WAS RIGHT THERE!

At minimum, I would have extended my compliments to the award winning Chef. First, for providing an outstanding meal on my initial visit. Secondly, to acknowledge that, through that meal, I was granted the opportunity to expand my horizons on what it means to be Black and run a restaurant. I would have told her that her interview with Deb Freeman on the “Setting The Table” podcast was a wonderful listening experience and I would have tried to shoe-horn a few follow up questions from said discussion. I would have told her that my brother and nephew thoroughly enjoyed the burgers from The Grey Market. Oh, and that I bought one of her insulated cups and a dad cap–an accessory I wear so often my Mom has told me that I need to create my own line of Black Food Friday hats. I would have told her these things and more if I had realized that it was her next to me.

But maybe it was for the best. Not speaking with her, then unceremoniously realizing that we were only a foot away from each other, led me to write this Craigslist inspired “Missed Connections” missive. And I’ve been saying for a while that I need to start writing again. So it all worked out. Creatively speaking.

But Mashama, if you happen to read this, let’s connect. I have a great appreciation for your work and although I haven’t read any of your books (yet), I’m more than happy to learn about your culinary journey directly from you. I’ll even drive to Savannah to do so.