Before I even set foot inside Imbibe, my restaurant experience is off to an endearing, slightly chaotic start: while trying to preview the menu on their website, I click a link that inexplicably opens the FaceTime app on my laptop.
Imbibe is located just off Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. The restaurant has been through some identity shifts since opening in 2016: At some point, it started incorporating “Rougarou”—“werewolf” in Cajun French—into its name. It’s sometimes referenced as Rougarou (Imbibe), sometimes as Imbibe/Rougarou, and at other times just one or the other of the two. In a recent Instagram post, the restaurant refers to itself as “Rougarou/Imbibe/whatever you wanna call it.”
Imbibe (my chosen moniker, for the purposes of this story) sits below Zog’s, a quirky pool bar popular with UNC students. Both establishments are owned by Mandey Brown, a New Orleans native whose roots are evident in the decor and offerings at each space.
Walking into the restaurant on a Thursday afternoon, it’s dark and still, the ceiling fans motionless overhead. The Louisiana influence is unmistakable: Mardi Gras beads are draped from the ceiling, and Saints football memorabilia and “House of Voodoo” signs compete for wall space with assorted mirrors, paintings, photographs, and clocks.
Known for live music, the restaurant has a front section designated for musicians, complete with a piano and organ, though it’s quiet when I come in. The lunch menu is printed on paper and scattered across the tables (one long communal table and four elevated booths).
It offers plenty of options within my budget: there’s a $10 lunch combo where you choose a main (eight varieties of po’ boy topped with “bitchy pickles,” a rye grilled “cheez,” chicken tenders), a side (hush puppies, Zapp’s Voodoo chips, Cajun fries, gumbo, a rotating “dessert du jour”), and a drink (fountain drinks, hot tea, iced coffee), as well as a $10 shrimp and grits meal. There’s also an instruction: “Please order at the bar! It’s nothing personal; we’re just not staffed for table service .”
I pepper the bartender with questions. Why is “cheez” spelled like that on the menu? “Just a fun way to spell cheese,” he shrugs. What are bitchy pickles? “Pickles in a spicy brine,” he says, adding that the pickles are not fried, an emphasis that suggests this must be a common point of confusion. What’s the dessert du jour? “Coconut and limoncello cake, but we’re out. The owner’s mom is dropping off more later today.” What would he recommend for a first-timer? “You like shrimp?” I nod. “Shrimp po’ boy.”
After I order the lunch combo with a blackened shrimp po’ boy, a cup of gumbo, and a fountain drink, the bartender has questions for me, too: Cheese or scallions on the gumbo? Both, I tell him. What kind of soda? He lists off generic options—cola, diet cola—and I stop him when he gets to lemon-lime.
My total rings up to $10.75 with tax. The receipt has checkboxes with 18, 20, and 25 percent tip options. This is the first spot I’ve been to for Lunch Money where I didn’t have to figure out what 20 percent was myself. I check the 20 percent box.
My food arrives quickly, delivered by a woman who turns out to be Mandey Brown, the owner. “Everything’s on the table for you,” she says, gesturing broadly. I survey what’s available: a Café du Monde coffee and chicory tin repurposed as a silverware holder, bottles of ketchup and sriracha, and a white-and-blue ceramic jar stuffed with markers.
“What are the markers for?” I ask.
Brown explains that there used to be paper covering the tables, but her dad, who’s supposed to be in charge of that task, hasn’t been keeping up with replacing it. Now people use the markers for whatever they want.
“Some people use them to destroy the menus,” Brown says. “One person used them to ruin a painting that I did.” She points to a small framed artwork on the wall next to my table. It’s a painting of a corked glass bottle labeled “Mürk.” Toward the bottom of the canvas, someone has drawn a crooked green line. (I discover a few days later that Imbibe’s relationship with local art extends beyond wall space: for $5, you can purchase a piece through their online ordering form, which is accessible with no FaceTime incidents at the time of writing. It’s a “grab bag situation” where you choose one parameter—“inspirational (non-religious),” “a wooden block painted by a child,” “comic art a little risque,” and so on—and “get what you get.”)
The gumbo is served in a small square white mug, packed with shredded chicken, andouille sausage, tomatoes, celery, and rice. The cheese I requested reveals itself gradually, stretching like spider silk when I lift my spoon. It’s hearty and filling, though not particularly memorable.
The po’ boy is more successful. The shrimp are kissed with a proper char, and the pickles have a nice kick, as advertised. The bread is a bit stale, but the generous smear of remoulade gradually mellows the staleness with each bite. It’s exactly the right portion size for lunch, substantial enough to satisfy without leaving me sluggish.
As I finish eating, I can’t resist the markers. I draw a shrimp on a napkin and leave it on the table as I head out.
Reach Staff Writer Lena Geller at [email protected]. Comment on this story at [email protected].
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