One Sunday morning, in the not so distant past, I woke up, raised my weary head, rubbed my eyes, followed by my belly, and listened to its internal monologue: Feed me. Feed me now. And with that, it was then out the door (and into some pants), then a mission onto Soho on a Sunday. Rather than mainlining a IV of the dark nectar that is coffee, I ventured past Jackson Rye, an Americana styled establishment, that wasn’t too far off from resembling a 50’s clubroom, with bluegrass southern sounds, pulsing from inside. I was soon greeted by a friendly and polite, member of staff. They were pretty full with bustling tables, which is generally a good sign and seated by the bar, which is not such a bad place to find yourself in.