The smell of fried chicken and baked mac and cheese fills the air as owner Michelle Matthews greets regulars by name. Behind the counter, she jokes with customers like old friends — because many of them are. At Matthews Southern Dining in Inglewood, food isn’t just cooked from scratch — it’s made from memory.
Matthews opened her namesake restaurant in 2009 after leaving a Hollywood pizza chain she co-owned. She named the restaurant after her late father, using her maiden name as a tribute. “In the beginning, I wanted it to be a family ordeal,” she said. “But working with family doesn’t always work out.”
When her mother fell ill in 2010, Matthews closed temporarily to care for her. “She passed away in 2011,” she said softly. “So I renovated the whole inside. It helped me get myself together.”
Soul food isn’t just a cuisine, it’s a cultural language. Rooted in the Deep South and born from survival and community, it tells the story of African Americans across generations how families turned scraps into sustenance and hardship into heritage.
From collard greens and cornbread to sweet potatoes and fried chicken, soul food reflects resilience — recipes passed down through time, infused with love and memory.
“Soul food means something authentic, something made from scratch, something homey,” Matthews said. “It’s family-oriented and delicious. Even when you’re full, you still want more.”
For me, soul food has always been a love language. Fridays meant family nights, and Sundays after church were for big dinners that filled the house with warmth and laughter. My grandmother and aunt would be in the kitchen making my favorites, collard greens or string beans with turkey necks, macaroni and cheese, fried chicken, sweet potatoes, and cornbread.
Those moments weren’t just about eating; they were about belonging. The smell of food meant togetherness, safety, and history.
Soul food ties Black families to their Southern roots, even for those who migrated to cities like Chicago, Los Angeles, and Detroit during the Great Migration. Recipes are passed down through generations, cooking these dishes becomes an act of remembrance.
When I step into Matthews, I feel that same sense of home, the same smell of seasoning and slow-cooked love that lived in my grandmother’s kitchen. Matthews isn’t just serving meals, she’s serving memory.
Every dish at Matthews tells a story. Her baked chicken is her mother’s recipe. The salmon croquettes came from her father, a Louisiana native. Her collard greens were inspired by her ex’s grandmother, who taught her to add a touch of pickle juice for flavor. Even her Kool-Aid mixed the same way her father made it when she was little, it carries a memory.
“Every dish has a story,” Matthews said. “That’s what soul food is, something authentic, made from scratch, something that makes you feel full and happy.”
As we spoke, the door opened and customer Raquel Keaton walked in, greeting Michelle like an old friend. She already knew what she wanted — the meatloaf.
“Soul food to me is love, family, unity,” Keaton said as she picked up her order. “The meatloaf here is remarkable. Never been duplicated.”
Moments like this — customers calling Michelle by name, conversations flowing between the counter and the dining tables are what turn Matthews from a restaurant into a ritual.
Over fifteen years, Matthews has watched the Inglewood community shift — from longtime locals to new faces drawn by redevelopment and gentrification. Through it all, she’s held onto her space and identity.
“It’s more diverse now,” she said. “I love seeing people from all backgrounds appreciating Southern dining.”
Maintaining her restaurant’s roots is a quiet act of resistance. She refuses to commercialize or compromise her recipes. “If I changed anything, I wouldn’t have customers,” she said. “I make everything from scratch. When I run out, I run out.”
She doesn’t advertise — by choice. “If I blew up, I wouldn’t have time to sit down and talk to my customers,” she said. “I want to keep it family.”
In a city where Black-owned businesses often disappear under the weight of rising rents and competition, Matthews’ persistence is its own statement: that soul food and the people behind it deserve to stay.
For regulars like Dai Hatchett, Matthews feels like a home away from home.
“It definitely feels like I just went to my auntie’s house, surrounded by cousins and we are eating good,” Hatchett said. “She’ll sit behind the counter and have a full conversation with you.”
Matthews creates belonging not just through flavor, but through care. During holidays, she keeps her doors open for those who have nowhere else to go. She recalls two elderly women coming into the restaurant, not knowing one another, but always seeing one another in there during the holidays. “They didn’t even know each other,” she said. “But every Thanksgiving, they’d come, sit together and that became their family.”
At Matthews, soul food isn’t just comfort — it’s a living archive (memory), a claim to space and dignity in Inglewood (resistance), and a ritual that keeps people stitched together (belonging).
Each plate carries a story, one of history, of home, and of heart.
And as Matthews puts it best:
“I just want people to feel comfortable, safe, and full. Like they have somewhere to go and someone who cares.”