Cafeteria chains, like Morrisons, Piccadilly, S&S, and Luby’s, once dominated the American South. By the mid-20th century, there were thousands of locations across the US.
Just like a school cafeteria, customers slid their trays down the line, pointed to what they wanted, and paid at the end. But unlike sad school pizza, these cafeterias served steaming piles of biscuits and gravy and crisp fried chicken.
By the 1970s, though, cafeterias faced growing competition from fast-food chains that offered cheaper and faster food.
To stay afloat, many cafeterias switched from fresh ingredients to canned and frozen ones, but they lost loyal customers. Come the 2000s, many of the major chains had shuttered. The S&S cafeteria I grew up going to in Macon, Georgia, closed in 2024.
I thought cafeterias were on their way out for good.
Until I heard about two mom-and-pop ones in the Atlanta suburbs that, to my surprise, were thriving.
So I loosened my belt, grabbed a tray, and got to work eating to find out why. What I discovered were two restaurants that masterfully straddle tradition and innovation.
Matthews Cafeteria in Tucker, Georgia, has been around for 71 years
Like the chains, third-generation owner Michael Greene cooks in bulk. Massive pots bubble on the stove. But unlike the chains, his recipes have been passed down through his family; none are written down.
His mac and cheese is his grandmother’s recipe. It’s mushy in the best way. Al dente, or firm pasta, isn’t a word in the South, Greene told me. That was my favorite dish on the table. So maybe his grandma’s on to something.
The biscuit sandwich was another star. Although these biscuits sit out on the steam table (a classic cafeteria staple for keeping food warm), they have a perfect crust.
Even better, the sandwich, piled high with bacon and eggs, was $5.
And I wasn’t the only one happy with the deal. The restaurant is full of regulars. One group has gathered for breakfast at this institution for 50 years. This is the kind of place people come to feel like they belong.
I’ve often heard this is what the chains used to be like: a community gathering place, crowded after Sunday church service. But the quality slumped. One former waitress of a major chain told me she used a microwave every day and received customer complaints about the food. The communities around the chains started to break down.
Greene said his town has kept him afloat. And it doesn’t seem like he would be willing to serve them anything but his grandmother’s best.
The Magnolia Room Cafeteria is the new kid on the block
Matthews isn’t alone in finding success in a seemingly tired model.
The Magnolia Room, which opened in 2018, is relatively new. Owner Louis Squires bought the 50-foot-long cafeteria line at auction when an S&S closed.
Despite having fancier decor, no breakfast service, and prices that I calculated were about a third more than Matthew’s on average, the Magnolia Room’s lines are out the door. A thousand people come on a Sunday, according to Squires.
I was surprised by how much Squires’ team makes from scratch.
For fried okra, chefs spend an hour chopping it up fresh. A pastry chef makes the pies on-site, while a baker whips up the bread.
Squires’ recipes aren’t from his family. He hired chefs from chains like S&S and Piccadilly who brought recipes with them. The team swapped in fresher ingredients: butter instead of margarine and real vanilla instead of artificial.
Of course, these ingredients are pricier. A plate costs about $20 here.
Squires proclaimed, “I will always raise the price before I cut the quality.” And I believed him.
One customer told me he comes every day for lunch because, with soaring grocery prices, it’s cheaper to come here. And he doesn’t have to do dishes.
Trying the food myself, I could see why. That fried chicken, with a crispy, almost lace-like skin, blew me away. Somehow, it was still moist, despite sitting on the steam table. The chicken pot pie, piled high with a giant biscuit, felt like a plunge into hearty nostalgia. With every fried okra popped into my mouth, all worries of the sticker price drifted away.
Like at Matthews, the town has rallied around this place. On my second pass down the cafeteria line, my loaded tray bumped into the lady’s in front of me. Mama Eula lovingly joked about my appetite, and we became fast friends. She pulled me to her table and told me I was her daughter now, too.
You can’t put a price on that feeling of heart-swelling belonging. A plate of yummy food is a cherry on top.
But will these mom-and-pop cafeterias survive?
As fast food prices climb and restaurants slash portion sizes to save money, these cafeterias seem like unicorns. Huge plates of made-from-scratch food for less than the price of a few Big Macs.
And they don’t need super inventive menus to stay relevant. They serve the comfort classics, done well. And patrons can’t get enough.
The cafeterias have held onto something the restaurant industry is clamoring for: the idea that a meal can still be communal, tasty, and affordable. One doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice the other.
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