Monet Dupree at Godfrey’s Drag Brunch (Photo by Jay Paul)
Upon our arrival to Godfrey’s at 308 E. Grace St. — promptly at 10:45 a.m. — we’re informed that the air conditioner is broken. It’s a warm spring day, but the breeze is nice and no one seems to mind. Groups have already begun to gather in the waiting area, most of which are large parties in celebration mode, brides and birthday girls. Rainbow strobe lights bounce off the darkly painted walls and onto a platform runway where some of us sit and wait. Dark sparkly curtains shimmer as the sun peeks through an open window. As attendees mill about, a man walks around with an envelope of one-dollar bills offering change to those who need it. Here, cash is king and tips are highly encouraged. Natasha Carrington, the conductor of Godfrey’s established drag brunch, enters and immediately tells me to get off her stage. The show has begun.
Carrington is a robust drag queen with a sharp tongue, a coiffed bob and a heavy hand with contour. As people enter during her introduction, she berates them for tardiness — calling out one for being visibly hungover and poking fun at another’s fashion foibles. With this, the first two rules of drag brunch are established: Don’t be late, and don’t be sensitive.
Godfrey’s hosts the only weekly drag brunch in town. In 2013, they added Saturday brunches to the exisiting Sunday schedule and have since increased to two weekend shows per day, which often sell out. Reservations are encouraged.
Once Carrington finishes her spiel, the doors to the dining area open. Food and drink orders are taken almost immediately, and the first performer is introduced. The familiar notes of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me),” fill our ears as Deja Diamond hits the floor. She struts through the dining room, singing and gyrating to the music in an emerald green velvet gown that is glued to her body. Even the most timid audience members can’t help but sway, clap and whip out dollar bills for the queen. The energy in the room is contagious. Once cocktails are served, it’s really on.
My stack of singles continues to dwindle, especially with the appearance of the blonde and bejeweled Amazing Grace — a close approximation of Jessica Rabbit. Hot on her heels is Melanin Monroe, who lip-syncs to Mariah Carey before Deja Diamond returns in a fresh outfit with a fresh song, and the cycle repeats itself. The audience is full of people singing, dancing, cheering and laughing — even Grandma.
I continue to dole out dollars as the food arrives. It’s nothing to write home about, but before I have the chance to harp too hard, Carrington is back and clad in a nude sequined bodysuit. As she dances through the crowd she leans into a birthday girl and seductively whispers into the microphone, “You can touch my butt.” The birthday girl obliges.
By now, plates are cleared, drinks are replenished. Cue “It’s Raining Men,” by The Weather Girls. Carrington, who has been side-eyeing one of the few men in the audience, makes her move. Soon the gentleman’s shirt is off, and she’s grinding vigorously against him. They take a shot of bourbon together, and then, almost as if it didn’t happen, his shirt is back on. By now, two hours have passed, brunch has been consumed, and after a quick encore the show is over. With this, the final two rules of drag brunch reveal themselves: Spend those singles, and get the hell out.
