Is there really anything more to say? The name alone is enough to soothe the savage breast on a cold winter morning.
Reid's is my haven downtown. OK, so it's not a restaurant. But I work on the wrong side of downtown, in a low brick building with lots of traffic, lots of garbage, and lots of random folks milling about at any given hour. I can't just pop across the street for a quick lunch at Ruth's Chris.
So my routine goes something like this: When I embark on the six-block walk to return some library books, I make an abrupt turn onto Seventh Street, past Levine Museum of the New South, past the parking garage, past the multicolored panels that I brush up against to elicit whatever sound they're making today, and into the enveloping warmth of Reid's.
Once inside, the sky's the limit. Sushi? Okay! Soup? They've got it. Baked goods? MmmmmMmm. Coffee, soda, fancy deli items, Pouilly Fuisse, Leibniz cookies, canned seafood stew. Hot bar, cold bar, homemade granola bars. You name it.
It's just such a warm, homey, inviting place. A perfect respite from the workday, if you can handle the be-suited hordes from Wachovia clogging the aisles as they wait for their sandwiches. And most days, I can.
And have I mentioned that it's warm?
(Note: I realize Reid's doesn't qualify as a traditional restaurant. Cut a girl some slack, okay?)
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