Why Alon’s Bakery is Mara Davis’ go-to restaurant

Davis is a fixture in Atlanta’s media scene. Her career spans radio, TV and live-event hosting. Nearly 26 years ago, she was my first mentor. We worked together at a now-defunct Atlanta radio station called Z93, back when radio was still slightly feral. DJs could drink bourbon in the booth and smoke in the break room. Nothing was automated, and you still had to know how to play vinyl, nudging the record back a few inches so the first note didn’t wobble. I was in my early 20s, new to media and deeply unsure of myself. Mara was already a household name, opinionated, quick-witted and absolutely unafraid to take up space.

She taught me things that had nothing to do with radio and everything to do with surviving a male-dominated environment: how to speak without apologizing first, how to trust your instincts and how not to tolerate requests to “go get me some coffee.“

Davis didn’t know she was my first subject for this column, or that she was my early Galentine’s date. But this is the woman who, over a quarter century ago, pushed me to leave Atlanta radio and go find my voice. That voice ended up being in food writing. I’ve just received the first physical copy of the cookbook I’ve been working on for the better part of a decade, and I wanted her to be the first to see it because I wouldn’t be here without her.

On the way to pick me up at my apartment building she sent a gruff, “Come down when I text you, cause I’m not going upstairs.”

Classic Mara Davis.

Credit: Monti Carlo/AJC

Credit: Monti Carlo/AJC

Walking into Alon’s, the first thing that hit me was the smell of butter, followed by a teenage boy’s abusive use of Dior Sauvage cologne. There were rows and rows of display cases, some filled with cakes and pastries glittering like expensive jewelry. Others were loaded with savory pastas, skewered meats and wedges of cheese. A wall of wine stood observing silently as people squeezed by tables overflowing with tasty bottled sauces and little boxes of Maldon salt. There was the buzz of people placing their orders at a register and the occasional cranky gurgle of milk being foamed at an espresso machine.

Davis strode in with the confidence of someone walking into their home kitchen. She wore a maroon sweater, pink hat with a bright red tomato embossed on it, jeans and white Nikes dotted with red lip drawings.

Credit: Ligaya Figueras

Credit: Ligaya Figueras

“Alon’s has been a part of my life. Birthdays, weddings, funerals,” she said as we stood in a winding line.

“Funerals?” I asked, eyes wide.

She lowered her voice and looked down.

“They catered my brother-in-law’s funeral.”

She said it the way people say things when they don’t realize they’re revealing something essential. Offhand.

“That shows so much faith in a place,” I said, a little taken aback. “That you would trust them with such a devastating moment. That you would let go and let them show up for you.”

“Yeah,” she said, gathering herself.

We placed our order: a Thai peanut chicken salad for her, and an All-American breakfast for me. We sat at the counter. The room suddenly felt almost uncomfortably full.

“There are certain items here that are markers of things in my life,” Davis continued. “Like the cinnamon twists. That’s something that (my son) Charlie loved. When he was little, that was his thing. When I went to visit him in college last year, I went and bought a few and brought them to him in Indiana. That was a taste of home.”

I smiled. I recognized the impulse to remember your child when you could still pick them up and they still called you mommy. I miss those days.

“I’m here at least once a week. And it’s more than just a bakery. It’s the fabric of the community. You always run into somebody you know. There are certain things that are consistently great.”

“Like their sandwiches are legendary. Or their midnight cake.” she said, referring to one of Alon’s signature desserts: three layers of moist chocolate buttermilk cake layered with a silky white chocolate mousse.

“It’s just the commitment to quality. Not everything is perfect. But the things that they do well are extraordinary.”

“What’s your favorite dish?” I asked as she took a bite of her salad.

“The peppered turkey sandwich with avocados is so hearty. Then the chocolate chip cookies, cinnamon twist, black midnight cake.”

I laughed. “I love that your go-to order is a sandwich and three pastries!”

“I’m a sweets person. I have a major, major sweet tooth.” she said with a shrug.

“I have such a big and deep love for my community of Virginia-Highland (and) Morningside,” she said between bites, before pausing. “When everything is so dark, Alon’s is a warm hug. It’s a neighborhood jewel.”

Atlanta has no shortage of exciting restaurants. Openings that make headlines. Entrances marked by red velvet ropes. Menus that read like manifestos. Those places are important. They move culture forward. They give us something to talk about.

But they are not what hold us.

That honor goes to the places that know your order. That show up whether the moment is celebratory, shattering or completely unremarkable.

Mara Davis has been coming to Alon’s through every version of her life. Early mornings. Midday meetings. Family milestones. Loss.

As we sat finishing our brunch, people moved in and out around us. Regulars with their hands full of items from the displays. Staff who know the rhythm of the room so well they don’t have to think about it anymore. There’s no rush to turn tables. No sense that you’re being timed.

Davis talked about how rare it is for something to remain recognizable in a city that reinvents itself constantly.

“The owner has been doing things the same way for years. Consistency,” she said, “is everything.”

She’s right.

When it comes to restaurants, cities need bold new ideas.

But they also need anchors.

Alon’s is an anchor for Mara Davis. Not because it’s fancy or trendy. But because it has been there for all the moments that make up a life: the ordinary mornings, the big transitions, the days when you don’t want to decide where to go because you already know.

That’s what makes it meaningful.

And that’s what this column will do: trace Atlanta through the people who live here and the places that have lived alongside them.

Next time, it will be someone else. A different neighborhood. A different kind of room. But the question will be the same: Why this place? What has it seen? What would be missing if it were gone?

Because when you start asking those questions, you realize a city isn’t defined by its newest opening. It’s defined by the places people trust with their lives, again and again.

Alon’s is one of those places.