By Jordan P. Hickey
Sun.–Tues., 11 a.m.–2 p.m.;
Wed.–Sat., 11 a.m.–2 p.m., 5 p.m.–8:30 p.m.
Strawberry Fields salad, good ol’ burger, “steak and eggs,” scampi and grits, and pie. All. Of. The. Pie.
To spend any amount of time in Wilson is to feel you’ve encountered a place that’s fallen directly out of the sky. Heading north from Memphis, there are the wide, wide fields of the Delta that spread off like a blanket, uniform to the eye unfamiliar with the subtler cues and totems by which such a landscape can be marked away and defined. But then, arriving in Wilson, there is Tudor architecture, a company town all in one style, a place that, again, feels so disconnected from the elements that would normally tether a town to one place—that if it weren’t anchored in place by the solidly built red-brick structures, it might drift up and away into the horizon.
Of course, this is wrong on several counts.
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