‘Automatic for the People:’ Weaver D’s still bonds Athens as era nears end
ATHENS — On a cold Friday in early November, a woman walks into Weaver D’s Delicious Fine Foods at 11 a.m., the posted opening time.
“Hello? Mr. Weaver?”
“I’m not ready yet,” says Dexter Weaver, the man who has run this place for nearly 40 years.
“You gonna have steak and gravy today?” she asks before heading back to her car to wait.
Within 10 minutes, the line starts building. A married couple from Texas on their first trip here; a longtime Athens resident who’s been coming for decades; a University of Georgia senior from Gwinnett County; a man who’s met the same friend here once a month for the past 20 years.
“Get y’all some tea or lemonade, and I’ll keep cooking,” Weaver says. “The chicken’ll be about 12 minutes.”
He makes the meat choice easy for newcomers. “Pork chops or chicken — no gravy for the steak yet,” he says, rattling off the vegetables again and again: “Macaroni and cheese, collard greens, green beans, lima beans, buttered potatoes, fried corn.”
When a regular steps up, he doesn’t wait for the order. “We’re good,” he says. “Long as I got your corn ready, right?”
By noon, the line snakes out the door. Cars circle for parking. Inside, there’s room for just five small tables and two longer ones, though one is covered in cakes: red velvet, key lime and the crumbs of a pound cake that didn’t last long. The walls are crowded with signs and posters, including two of R.E.M., the Athens band that used Weaver’s famous saying, “Automatic for the People,” for the title of its 1992 album that went on to sell 18 million copies worldwide.
Weaver says “Automatic” often — when someone opens the door, when taking payment, when full takeout boxes are pushed into plastic bags.
Longtime customers help first-timers learn the system: Order your protein and pay Weaver, who moves constantly between the register — swiping credit cards, scooping ice — and the back, where he pulls chicken from the fryer and dressing from the oven. Then head to the window on the left to choose your fixings from a woman moving just as often. Hesitation can cause gaps in the shuffle, but locals keep things on track.
Weaver answers the phone. “Weaver Deeeeeeeeee’s,” he says. “I’m not closed. We are here.”
In a college town that turns over every four years, and in a world changing faster than ever, Weaver D’s soul food restaurant has been a constant, the kind of place that’s growing rarer here and everywhere else.
Soon, though, all of this commotion — and all of this food — will also be gone. Weaver has listed the restaurant for sale, expecting that whoever buys the building will use the quarter-acre lot for something else. The area, just down the hill from downtown, has filled in over the last decade with high-rise apartments, renovated rental houses and parking decks.
“Please tell me it’s not true,” a woman says before ordering.
“It’s for real this time,” Weaver says.
‘Putting food on your plate and saying, ‘Automatic’'
Dexter Weaver was born and spent his first six years in Athens. He remembers his great-grandmother planting carrots, squash and collard greens in the garden, the source of his first cooking memory.
He cooked English peas for her when she couldn’t.
“She was on her sick bed dying of cancer, and she instructed me on how to do that,” he said. “There was a little too much salt in it.”
Weaver and his mother moved to Baltimore in the early 1960s. That’s where he honed his cooking skills and picked up a knack for business. When neighborhood kids held a pet show, he sold popcorn and hot dogs. When his stepdad hosted card games on Friday nights, Weaver made pig ears and feet.
His mother, a registered nurse, worked long hours, so Weaver “would have dinner ready when she got home.” As a teenager and into his 20s, he took on all kinds of jobs — shining shoes, going door to door selling Gospel journals, light bulbs, leather wallets and corsages ahead of Easter and Mother’s Day.
“I would have never gotten to see some of the things that I saw in Baltimore,” he said. “A lot of people. That broadens the mind, a bigger variety.”
Weaver moved back to Athens driving a brand-new 1978 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. He had three car payments’ worth of cash in his pocket.
He had studied fast food management at a community college in Baltimore and went on to manage a KFC, Krystal and Wendy’s, work that led to Weaver’s famous slogan. When workers routinely called out on holidays, Weaver covered double shifts to keep things running.
That mentality, combined with his days selling door to door in Baltimore — when a man once said, “If Weaver doesn’t have something today, he’ll have it tomorrow” — led to the phrase.
He was automatic as a salesman. And he worked for his people.
“So I combined that, meaning ready, quick and efficient,” Weaver said.
Between jobs in Athens, Weaver cooked dinners out of his home on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. He had an ice cream route and sold food to gas stations.
Michael Thurmond, who grew up in Athens and is now a Democratic candidate in the 2026 Georgia governor’s race, remembers Weaver back then often pulling up at his law firm.
“We would stand out in the parking lot and purchase these roasted peanuts out of the trunk of his car,” Thurmond said.
Weaver also catered events and cooked for University of Georgia fraternities. One fraternity member who often ate Weaver’s food back then was Brian Kemp, who grew up in Athens and is now the state’s governor.
Thurmond and Kemp both remember Weaver already using his famous slogan in those days.
“The food was great, like it is today,” Kemp said. “But the thing about Weaver is, if you ever met him, you never forgot him. I mean, he was a one-of-a-kind guy, and there’s nothing like getting that first serving from him. He’s putting food on your plate and saying, ‘Automatic.’”
In 1986, a roughly 1,400-square-foot building on East Broad Street, built in 1950, came up for rent. Wood paneling on the walls had to be replaced, one room had a dirt floor and there was a space heater for the cold days and a small unit air conditioner for the hot ones. But Weaver D’s was ready for launch.
“We’ve come a long way to get where we are today,” Weaver, 70, said.
Weaver D’s takes off
The restaurant was a hit from the beginning. Weaver had established a customer base from his previous work, and by then his recipes were set.
He’s always cooked fried chicken the same way. Season the flour with salt, pepper and garlic. Drop it in the fryer for 15 minutes at 350 degrees.
Back then, Weaver D’s opened at 6 a.m. Two sausage biscuits for $1. It stayed open until 6 p.m. Dinners were $3 a person. Weaver drew from his fast food management to create a profitable business.
“Controlling labor, food and paper costs,” Weaver said. “And managers know how to fix things. When a Coke machine messes up, you don’t call a person every time. I learned to do all of that.”
Weaver said that UGA faculty and people working other jobs showed up early in the morning. UGA students, creatives in the blossoming music scene and locals packed in for lunch.
“It’s one of the few places that serves as a nexus between particularly Black Athens and the town and gown, where you actually rub shoulders in a social environment,” Thurmond said.
R.E.M. takes Dexter Weaver to the Grammys
In 1992, R.E.M. had a problem. The band’s eighth studio album was nearly finished — track list, artwork, everything — except for the title. It was supposed to be called “Star,” to match the cover art depicting a metal star-shaped ornament, stark against a gray background. But Warner Bros. objected: The British pop band Simply Red had recently released “Stars.”
“We needed a title in a hurry,” said Bertis Downs, the band’s manager.
On a conference call soon after, guitarist Peter Buck blurted out Weaver’s slogan. Downs and lead singer Michael Stipe then went to see Weaver.
At first, Weaver wasn’t in the mood. The day before, someone had broken into his restaurant and stolen all his hams and turkeys. But as the men talked, he said his “countenance changed.” The band licensed the phrase, paid Weaver (neither man discussed the amount) and released “Automatic for the People” on Oct. 5, 1992.
The album went platinum four times in the U.S., six times in the U.K. and three times in Australia. It was nominated for “Album of the Year” at the 1994 Grammys, where Weaver joined the band at Radio City Music Hall, an experience he calls life-changing.
The phrase caught on beyond music. Al Gore used it on the campaign trail ahead of Bill Clinton’s election, and it was even a candidate for the 1996 Atlanta Olympics slogan. Weaver couldn’t keep up with T-shirt orders, especially from Germany.
But fame had its downsides.
Someone — Weaver suspects an R.E.M. fan — stole the sign from the front of his restaurant. After band members pleaded through media outlets for its return, Weaver found it one morning behind the building.
“They left a $10 bill to replace the hardware,” he said.
On a Tuesday afternoon earlier this month, Joseph Vain walked into Weaver D’s and immediately took out his phone to snap pictures of the R.E.M. posters on the wall. He said the band’s music is in his DNA, and he came to make sure he got at least one more meal.
“This way I still have that connection,” said Vain, who lives in neighboring Oconee County. “Kind of like seeing a relative who’s about to pass, so to speak. You still want to talk to them.”
‘You figure it out, you love it and you’re coming back’
In the end, international fame didn’t change much at Weaver D’s.
Sure, Weaver later painted the place lime green, welcomed tourists from Europe and turned down a few offers to franchise. But the food stayed the same, and so did his process. A sign behind the register sums it up: “Three people and one deep fryer.”
“Sometimes it’s just two,” he said.
Kemp said it was “wild” to experience that as a college student and then watch Weaver’s place go from local favorite to part of R.E.M. lore. Years later, while working on downtown construction projects, he often ate there again, shoulder to shoulder with other workers and college students craving the same food he’d loved decades earlier.
“It’s really the melting pot of Athens,” Kemp said.
Christian Robinson remembers his first visit to Weaver D’s in 2009.
The former University of Georgia football linebacker said walking in and hearing Weaver call out the menu was intimidating.
“Am I going to make it through this test I’ve been put in front of?” Robinson said. “You figure it out, you love it and you’re coming back for more.”
When the Bulldogs were coming off a losing season in 2010, Robinson said coaches encouraged upperclassmen to organize team gatherings away from the football facility. He brought the entire defensive line to Weaver D’s.
This was before NIL, so Robinson needed his dad’s help to foot the bill for eight players — many of them well over 300 pounds.
“I wanted it to be somewhere that mattered to me and where I knew they would enjoy the food,” Robinson said.
He credits meals like that for helping Georgia go on to reach two straight SEC Championship games. Now an assistant at Alabama, he said he often thinks about Weaver D’s — what Athens was like 15 years ago and the decisions he made then that shaped his life.
“When you come back, it’s almost like a ghost,” Robinson said. “You know what experiences you had and who you shared them with. They’re hard to re-create. Weaver D’s is one of those spots everybody wants to come be a part of.”
Weaver bought the lot and building in 2009 for $175,000. By 2012, in the wake of the Great Recession, he was in financial trouble and facing foreclosure. Fewer people were eating out while costs for food, utilities and waste were rising. Weaver didn’t keep it a secret.
He asked for help — through local news, national media, anyone who would listen. Locals came to eat and make donations. UGA students organized “Automatic Saturdays,” with social media pushes to draw crowds.
At least three times, Weaver figured he wouldn’t make it. He even put the place up for sale in 2013. But he kept cooking, and he’s still here.
“My mother said to be careful on the way up, because if you happen to come back down, if people like you they will cushion and push you back up,” he said. “That’s what happened.”
‘Almost nearing the end of it’
Andy and Jenny Smith came from Austin, Texas, to Athens in November to watch their son play in an ultimate Frisbee tournament. Their first food stop: Weaver D’s.
“We came here because this place is famous for the R.E.M. reference,” Andy said. “But we heard it’s just a great place to get food. The real deal.”
Jenny ordered two pieces of dark-meat chicken; Andy took the pork chops. They shared off each other’s plates — green beans, mac and cheese, cornbread muffins — until only chicken bones were left.
As they ate, Athens resident and longtime customer Linda Hill struck up a conversation while waiting for her to-go box. When she learned the couple was from Texas, she launched into SEC football talk. She had just traveled to see Georgia beat Florida in Jacksonville, Florida, and said she couldn’t wait to watch the Bulldogs host Texas.
People don’t stay strangers long here. “Enjoy y’all’s stay, and have a safe trip back to Texas,” Hill said.
Weaver says he’s proud of interactions like that. An admitted workaholic, he says seeing people connect over his food keeps him going.
But he’s ready to rest and to travel. Paris and Hawaii top his list. The lot went up for sale in October with an $800,000 price tag. Weaver says he’ll keep cooking until the sale becomes official, and he doesn’t mind the rush of customers the news has brought.
“’Cause I have labored,” he said. “I poured myself into this. I’m proud of the goal that I set, and I’m proud that I’m almost nearing the end of it.”
Other longtime, storied eateries have shuttered around Athens in recent years.
The Varsity closed in 2021, replaced by two smaller outposts in neighboring counties aimed at suburban diners. The Grit, a vegetarian spot frequented by Stipe and other creatives, went out in 2022, with a chain pizza joint taking its place. The Mayflower, a breakfast staple for 75 years, shut its doors in 2023 and is now a Chipotle.
“Those places, in a lot of ways, were icons themselves,” Kemp said. “(Weaver) has lasted and been the test of time.”
Weaver won’t be done with food entirely. He hopes to cook at festivals, not from a food truck, but taking specific requests and showing up ready to serve.
Thurmond says he expects to see Weaver in other, quieter ways, too. For as long as he can remember, Weaver has cooked food for every funeral repast in Thurmond’s family.
“We don’t even discuss the price,” Thurmond said. “He just starts preparing.”
When Thurmond considers the void that will be left when Weaver D’s is gone, he turns the focus back to Weaver himself. A few months ago, Thurmond ordered a red velvet cake for a family gathering but couldn’t make it back to Athens until 10:30 that night.
Weaver met him at the restaurant.
“I don’t care what he does, where he goes,” Thurmond said. “The one thing I know will be true — Dexter Weaver will be automatic.”
Read more AJC coverage from Athens
Fletcher Page is an Athens-based reporter for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution covering the Classic City and other parts of northeast Georgia. He joined the AJC in 2024 after previously working at the Cincinnati Enquirer, Louisville Courier-Journal and Athens Banner-Herald.
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About the Author
Fletcher Page is Athens bureau chief covering northeast Georgia for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
