Cozy's Corner Restaurant: Memphis Barbecue
"If you ain't been to Cozy's, you ain't been to Memphis..."
Back in the early 2000s, with John Loyd–my agent, friend, and barbecue/diner gourmand–I descended on Memphis for a Folk Alliance Conference and showcase.
We did our business at the conference, but John had also prepared a short list of places to eat and we carefully ticked them off during our stay there.
We had the dry rub barbecue from the most widely advertised places in downtown–The Rendezvous and Central Barbecue and found the cue and the side dishes tired and uninspiring.
Success will ruin a restaurant if its name becomes more important than its food.
One evening, sitting in the conference hotel bar, we struck up conversations with the bartender and patrons. Mentioning that we'd tried the dueling famed barbecue places and found them disappointing, we threw ourselves on the mercy of whoever was within earshot and asked for recommendations of places to eat while we were in town.
At the other end of the bar, eight or ten people away, as some other people were making suggestions, a black man with a beer before him half-stood from his stool, made eye contact with us, and said:
If you ain't been to Cozy's–you ain't been to Memphis.
We had each scribbled various suggested restaurants on bar napkins, and Cozy's made both our lists. How could it not? The next day, we went for an early dinner.
You understand that I won't go into a barbecue place unless there is smoke coming out of it. Cozy's qualified.
Situated in a sort of commercial no man's land between Uptown and the historic district, Cozy's is a black-owned family-run establishment that seemed to be an old Dunkin' Donuts or something with a sidewall knocked out to accommodate a big smoker. It looks run down on the outside, but Lord have mercy, the food was great and the inside spotless.
One of their specialties is smoked Cornish Game Hens, but Memphis pork barbecue, chicken, and ribs are very well-represented, too.
I had my 1931 National in a gig bag on my back as we came through the door. I don't leave guitars in vehicles. Ever.
It was a cool day for Memphis and inside there was a partially toothless, seemingly homeless man in a hoodie sitting in one of the chairs apparently for people who were waiting for takeout, clearly an accepted friend, if not resident, of the restaurant. We nodded to him and went to the counter to look at the menu and order.
It was just after the school day ended and a young teenager was smiling behind the counter to take our orders. His mother was at a table, doing paperwork, ordering supplies, and managing the checkbook. His younger sister, a girl of maybe seven or eight, was playing in one of the banquettes. We were the only white people there that mid-afternoon, and their only customers during the dead time between lunch and dinner.
John had his heart set on the barbecued Cornish Game Hens, (where else would one ever have them?) and figuring we'd share plates, I ordered some chopped barbecue and ribs.
The sides were traditional: green beans and ham hocks, barbecued beans, coleslaw, cornbread, french fries, collard greens with onions and vinegar, barbecue, and hot sauces on the table.
As we placed our order, we chatted up the boy behind the counter.
"Is that a bass guitar?" he asked.
"No, it's an old National, a blues guitar from 1931."
"My dad plays bass. He's cooking in the back."
"Y'all should see this guitar," I said, as his dad came to the counter to get our orders. He enthused, "Give me a minute, I'll get a break after I get your food started."
My guitar has made me a lot of friends over the years.
I've never felt like I owned the guitar–I have custody of it. I think of my instruments the way Native Americans thought about land–my job is to maintain; protect them, and shepherd them into the hands of the next generation when I am gone.
So I'm always happy to pull it out and demonstrate its sound and strengths–a little impromptu blues or slide guitar seems to be welcome in the most unexpected places–on busses, airplanes (there's a story in that), on trains, in airports...
As John and I headed for our table, we greeted the little sister. She was dressed for church: shiny black dress shoes over white tights and socks, a satin shift with a lace top, and pearls.
"Don't you look nice," I said.
"It was dress up day at school today. We had to dress up like somebody famous."
"And who are you?"
With considerable dignity she stood up a little straighter and said, "I'm...Aretha Franklin!"
"And so you are!"
She quickly turned from us, kicked off her shoes and started using the cracked red naughahyde bench seat against the opposite wall as a trampoline, bouncing high into the air and landing on her butt, feet out straight, pearls bouncing around her chin. Her joy was infectious. Her mother at peace with her antics, working away on the books.
The bass player came out of the kitchen and I pulled out the National for our five new friends, the homeless guy looking around the corner of the entryway from his chair.
There was some oo-ing and ahh-ing about the shiny nickel plating and the palm trees and volcano images on the back.
I attached the strap and tossed it over my head and pulled a heavy glass slide out of my pocket. I played a guitar intro from Muddy Waters' playing, sang a verse and played an instrumental verse and tag.
Smiles all around. John, too, was delighted. None of us were being shy or formal. It really is a family place.
We settled down into our seats, I tucked the guitar up in the corner of the booth and Aretha went back to trampolining on the seat opposite us. I was admiring the Cozy's Barbecue t-shirts: bright orange with black ink.
When dad came out with our food, John and I both cooed in anticipation. As he set the food down, I said, "You know I think I'm going to have to have one of your t-shirts. How much are they?"
He looked at me and said, "Normally $20. But would $15 be okay?"
Even now writing about it, more than a decade later, his generosity nearly brings tears to my eyes, and certainly warms my heart.
I did get a t-shirt for $15, and then included the difference on top of our tip.
And I tell you, that is the world I want to live in, where a non-transactional, gentle generosity rules our interactions, and family-like hospitality comes with a side of some of the best barbecue in the world.
Music and food make us friends, nourish us, heal us, and inspire us.
If you go to Memphis, don't miss Cozy's.
Cozy's Corner Restaurant
7635 North Pkwy
Memphis TN 38105
901-527-9158https://CozyCornerBBQ.com
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Scott Ainslie
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The Memphis Horns took me to Cozy Corner when I was playing in Tom Johnston’s band. Pretty sure it was the best barbecue I ever had or else it was the company! Thanks for the beautiful story.