Mellow to the Mushroom

The Mellow Mushroom. 212 21st Ave. S

I crave pizza.

This is too bad, really, since I’m a gluten-intolerant eater. Pizza can be veerrrry tricky to come by, and when I do manage to come by it, its crust tends to taste like 1) cardboard, 2) rotten potatoes, or 3) (my favorite) dishwashing liquid. It’s easy to give up on gluten-free pizza.

Enter: The Mellow Mushroom, a southern pizza chain that has recently started offering gluten-free pizza options.

My husband and I decided to give it a try, thinking, “Meh, it can’t be any worse than some of the others…”

It was surprising. Delicious, even. Buttery, melt-in-your-mouth, dough-y pizza crust. I am in love. But, like every love story, there are a few bumps in the road. Is it worth it, for a slice of pizza heaven? You decide.

The visit

There are a few things you should know about the Mellow Mushroom chain in general, before you visit. This will not be your best service experience. Yes, Mellow Mushroom is a drug reference. Yes, most of the employees will act/treat you like they spend most of their time in the back room enjoying some mellowed mushrooms.

That said, if you’re prepared to just eat and enjoy, if you’re not in a rush, and if you don’t mind correcting your order a time or two, this meal is well worth the price and the occasional hassle.

We visited on a Sunday after church and ordered a gluten-free pizza with Italian sausage and green peppers. Since I wanted to get a good feel for the crust without the cover-up of tomato sauce, we went for the olive oil and garlic sauce instead. The waitress was less than helpful when we double-checked to make sure our topics were gluten-free.

“Well,” she said, “if you eat gluten-free, you pretty much know what you can have, right?” Wrong. We sent her back to the kitchen to check, which she did, with a sigh.

She returned a few minutes later and told us that the sausage was, in fact, safe for me. She then walked over to punch our order into the computer and asked, “Gluten-free pizza with mushrooms and green peppers, right?” Uh… no…

About twenty minutes later our pizza arrived, piping hot and smelling SO delicious. But… with marinara.

We corrected the order, and the waitress (who was, by this point, actually beginning to apologize), headed back to the kitchen to redo the order. She left the marinara pizza on the table, which my husband Daryl was only too happy to inhale.

Twenty more minutes later, the perfect pizza arrived.

And oh, it was. The crust held together perfectly–a true feat for a gluten-free pizza. It tasted like the honeyed crusts I remember from my glutenous days at Mellow Mushroom, and the Italian sausage had a good bit of spicy spunk to it. Not enough for a true kick, but plenty to add interest and texture to the slice. The green peppers were sprinkled generously, and the whole effect was delicious.

Service? Bleh. Food? Amazing. Well worth the hassle, if you have the time. They do takeout, too, which is a good way to skip the difficulties and just enjoy a fresh, warm, glutenous or gluten-free pizza.

Happy chowing!

There’s No Place Like Home

San Antonio Taco Company, Vanderbilt Location, 416 21st Ave. S.

Lunch and dinner.

My mother is Latin-American, which makes me half-Latin-American.  Specifically, she is Honduran, but the specificity doesn’t much matter when it comes to certain food staples.  Rice.  Beans.  Tamales.  And, of course, tacos.

I grew up with some strong mixed messages about tacos, as about other things, and I attribute this in part of growing up in a mixed house.  On the one hand, my mother said she despised American attempts at Latin-American food.  On the other hand, we probably had enough Taco Bell taco dinners to feed a small country.

Some of the best tacos I had growing up were from taco stands in neighborhoods that my friends’ parents told their kids to be careful to avoid.  All the better for us, my mom used to say, as we would slip away into taco dives where Spanish was the only language heard or seen.  I would choose a table while my mom would order bags full of tacos, chatting with the proprietors about their origins and why they had all ended up here.  I felt, as I often do, out of place in these restaurants, knowing I wasn’t fully one of them and knowing I wasn’t fully one of the others either.

Eating those tacos seemed to bridge the gaps, at least for that hour we spent surrounded by people who looked more like my mom than my friends’ mothers did.  The tacos were the glue that was tying us to the same location, and they were always fresh, flavorful, and filling in an indescribable way.

The San Antonio Taco Company, or “Satco” to the locals, is not reminiscent of one of these authentic taco joints.  In fact, judging by its appearance alone, it is a place for college students and 20-somethings to gather on the large wooden deck, order a round of beer in an ice bucket, and drink copiously.  And, let me be clear, I see no harm in this.

What is surprising, however, is the tacos themselves.  These little foil-wrapped morsels of goodness bring me back time and again to those awkward-yet-soul-enriching hours spent in the taquerias of my youth.  Satco excels at the skill that Latin-Americans have mastered: keep it simple and let the ingredients speak for themselves.  And, crucially, keep it cheap.

Peter and I are now regular patrons of Satco, visiting the Vanderbilt location at least once a week.  After some experimentation with different menu options, our standard order is now as follows:  four beef tacos with cheese and guacamole and an order of chips and queso, all for around $15, a brilliant lunch for a brilliant price.

The menu offers various meat tacos (pork, chicken, and beef) as well as vegetarian options (bean & cheese and guacamole), enchiladas, salads, and sides.  The queso is addictive, thick and creamy, the way a good queso ought to be.  If only the guacamole was a little fresher and tastier, then this place might be ranked near the top of all tacos I’ve ever had.

There are other things to be wary of as well.  The service at the counter isn’t unfriendly exactly, but it sure isn’t anything to write home about.  On more than one occasion, Peter and I have had something omitted from one of our tacos (either the cheese or the guac was skipped in the attempt to get the food out fast).  Additionally, this place isn’t going to be winning any awards for cleanliness, particularly on the outdoor tables or near the salsa bar.  Remember: college students have just broken free from their parents.  Cleanliness isn’t up there on the list of priorities.  And Satco is so invested in getting the orders out fast that a good table-wipe-down is hard to come by.  Just think of it as lending a little ambiance.

Meanwhile, I’ll click my heels and dream of home…

Viva la (GF!) Pasta

I’m gluten-intolerant, so I’m always a bit hesitant to eat out. Usually dining out goes well, provided I give our poor waiter the third-degree (“How was this prepared? What’s in the broth? What type of salad dressing is this? Are you sure it’s gluten-free, because if it isn’t I will get very sick right here at your restaurant!”). Occasionally, it goes very badly.

My worst dining-out episode was at a steak place in New Jersey that claimed to have a gluten-free menu. An hour after a celebratory graduate school graduation dinner with my visiting parents, I was curled on the couch in agony while my mom, ever the mama bear even though I’m well into my (eep… late) twenties, was on the phone.

“We very much appreciate that you offer gluten-free options, but I want you to know that my daughter is very, very sick right now. You need to reevaluate those gluten-free cooking procedures you have there.”

This is all to say that regular, positive gf-dining experiences will make me a fan of a particular restaurant for life. Now that I’m living in Nashville, there are dozens upon dozens of new dining possibilities on my horizon. I can’t wait to try them all, but since I’ve been living here all of ten days, so far I only have one to share: Maggiano’s.

Even walking into an Italian restaurant can be a little bit scary to anyone who’s gluten-sensitive. What if someone opens a huge bag of flour in the kitchen and it drifts into my personal space? What if the pasta noodles can sense my weakness? What if – horror of horrors – we sit at a table near a little kid who, unbeknownst to me flings particles of their glutenous food onto my plate?!?! Silly, I know, but I get kinda paranoid after a bad attack.

After unloading our storage pod and unpacking eight bajillion boxes, my husband and I were both starving, so I put on my game face and we drove over to Maggiano’s.

It was a Sunday night, so we didn’t think we needed to make a reservation, but when we arrived at 7pm there was still a half hour wait.

One thing this Maggiano’s doesn’t have going for it is a friendly entryway. The hostess stand is to the right, but walking in the doors it’s difficult to see and it’s easy to end up wandering around the bar area. If you face any wait time (and if you’re reservation-less, you’re likely to wait for awhile), there are only a couple of places to sit without feeling awkward and obtrusive.

Just about half an hour later, we were seated, and our waiter asked us if we had any special food allergies or requests. Bingo. I explained my gluten-intolerance (I usually just say “wheat allergy,” as this makes more sense to the average restaurant cadre), and he noted it.

“You can have pretty much anything on the menu,” he said. “We even have gluten-free pasta!”

I ordered the Chicken Saltimbocca – chicken breasts topped with fresh sage, prosciutto, and Provolone cheese, served in a garlic white wine sauce with carmelized onions and angel hair aglio olio. It seemed pretty simple – chicken, cheese, gluten-free pasta. Daryl ordered the “Mom’s Lasagna” with meat sauce, drawn in by Maggiano’s new offer of sending an entire fresh entree home with any customer who orders one of their classic pastas. We agreed to share a side of asparagus.

After our order the waiter stammered for a second.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I think we can do that.” There seemed to be some discrepancy between what he claimed was possible (“pretty much anything on the menu”) and what was possible for the gluten-intolerant among us.

Within minutes Sergio, the sous chef, was at our table asking questions. He explained that they could not make the Chicken Saltimbocca gluten-free. Since that seemed like a fairly straightforward dish, I was now at a loss for what to order. Not ravioli or cannolini, obviously. Not the lasagna, I was certain. I wanted chicken, pasta, flavor, and not to get sick. I appealed to the chef.

“What can you make gluten-free?” I asked. “Anything with chicken?”

“Ah, well…” he wracked his brain. “Herb-roasted chicken?”

“With pasta?” I asked.

“Certainly. With pasta.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

The waiter dropped off a basket of bread a few moments later. No gluten-free options there, and I sat and sipped on my cherry coke as Daryl devoured the entire basket. For us gf-ers, this can be the grumpiest part of the meal. We’re hungry, and our friends or family chow down on a delicious-looking basket of bread while we… sip our cherry cokes. Bah, humbug.

In under half an hour we were presented with our entrees: an enormous lasagna for Daryl, piping hot asparagus for us both, and… an entire herb roasted chicken for me. What the–?

I stared open-mouthed at the massive chicken and green beans (which I hadn’t ordered) piled on my plate while searching in vain for the pasta.

“Is the pasta…?” I asked our waiter.

“Coming,” he said.

Five minutes later a server arrived with a vat of gluten-free rigatoni. This was enough food for me, Daryl, and the entire kingdom of Luxembourg. We were also convinced that my portion of the meal was going to cost us about $85. After all, it covered most of the table.

I nibbled on the pasta, but to my dismay it was very, very bland. And I like bland food, for the most part. I grew up in Wisconsin. It had some cloves of garlic and a touch of parsley, but it was quite dry and tasteless.

I asked the waiter for some sauce to put on it — anything gluten-free and not marinara. Cream sauce? Alfredo? Garlic-butter sauce? He came back in just a moment with some alfredo sauce, which turned the pasta from bland to delicious. I don’t know exactly what Maggiano’s puts in its alfredo, but I’m pretty certain it’s some derivative of heroin. I couldn’t get enough of it.

Before I had straightened out the elements of my meal, Daryl had devoured his lasagna and was licking his lips.

“How did you finish that?” I asked. “It was the size of a cement block!” My husband is tall and thin but can put down food like a hot-dog eating champion at a state fair.

He smiled. “It was amazing,” he said.

The only thing that disrupted my enjoyment of the meal, now that all of my ordered had arrived, was how massive everything was. I felt, as I told Daryl, “like an ancient barbarian sitting over my kill.” There were chicken pieces piled to my collarbone, which, as I had gone to the trouble of dressing up in my favorite little cocktail dress, sent some mixed messages.

We elected to box up the remains of my meal, and Daryl received his take-home lasagna as promised. When the waiter arrived with our dessert menu, at first I waived him off. We were too full. Then he mentioned the magic words:

“The creme brulee is gluten-free.”

Glory be. Maggiano’s has a wide range of desserts, and the ice cream and creme brulee are both gluten-free. They’ve also begun offering mini-desserts for $2.50 which, given the portions of the meals, is brilliant.

I ordered the mini-creme brulee, and Daryl found room for a mini-tiramisu. The creme brulee was the perfect size after such a large meal, and came with a good-sized strawberry but it was cold and seemed pre-made. Daryl raved about the tiramisu and smiled with every bite.

A good night out indeed. The best part? All of that food on my side of the table – an entire chicken, a massive bowl of pasta, extra alfredo sauce, and a mound of green beans – was only $16. I could get used to this.

The other best part? Not a twinge of upset in my tummy. It took them awhile to figure things out, but Maggiano’s eventually did gluten-free very well.

There may not be such a thing as a free lunch, but…

Blackstone Restaurant and Brewery, 1918 West End Ave.

Lunch and dinner.

Chock this up to one of the weirdest dining experiences of my life, but, thankfully, the good kind of weird and not the kind that will end in tears or diarrhea.

Peter and I had just arrived in Nashville and were tired, cranky from unpacking boxes all day, and looking for a meal that we wouldn’t have to think too much about.  And for this, there might not be anything better than a restaurant/brewery combo, the kind of place that takes its beer seriously and its food less so, the kind of place that would remind us of our yearlong stint in the UK, popping into Scottish pubs in the wee hours of the Scottish winters, wanting a beer, something fried, and something fast.

And so, driving down West End Avenue, we saw Blackstone in the distance and decided to give it a try.  We liked the bay windows displaying the beer brewing in its shiny glory, and we liked the place even better when we were seated right away, tucked into a corner booth and left to rest our aching selves.  The dining room was pretty full, lots of large parties linking tables together and drinking and laughing and reveling like they were in a bona fide pub.  Peter and I ordered our beers and watched the crowds of Nashvillians, our new neighbors, enjoy their conversations and their meals.

We drank almost half of our pints before realizing that our waiter had all but disappeared.  We had closed our menus, providing the universal cue that we were ready to order, but our waiter was no where to be seen.  We recalled what we had heard many times in Scotland, that a pint is a meal in itself, and we tried to nurse our drinks a bit more slowly.  And we continued to wait.

In Edinburgh, where we lived for seven months, our first pub experience makes us laugh to this day.  We had spent a long day exploring our new city, and we were, at the end of it, “parched and famished” (in Brit-speak).  So, we wandered over to Rose Street where (at the intersection of Hanover) there is a famous little pub called Milne’s.  We walked in, chose our table in a corner, and waited for our server.  When thirty minutes pass and we were still waiting, we left parched, famished, and indignant that we had been so clearly ignored.  Of course, a few weeks later, I was reading some literature on American cultural adjustment to Britain.  Therein, I learned that proper British pub etiquette is for the pub patron to order and pay at the bar.

Oops.

We returned to Milnes shortly thereafter and redeemed the entire experience.

But, sitting in a crowded brewery in Nashville, Tennessee, we were fully aware of the restaurant etiquette.  You wait to be served.  You wait for your waiter.

And so, we waited.  And waited.  And waited.

Finally, with only a quarter of our beers left, we saw our waiter peeking around the corner, and, in my now tipsy impatience, I flailed my arms at him to get his attention.  He worriedly approached our table.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, naturally.  “We are so busy tonight, and I think you guys just got lost in the shuffle.”

I wanted to be angry at him, but he seemed sincere and also, I might add, a little scared.

“It’s ok,” I assured him.  “Just get us our food fast, if you can.  We’re really hungry.”

Within ten minutes of placing our order, we had our steaming food in front of us.  I ordered the Rainbow Trout (“pan seared with a potato-horseradish crust and a brie cheese butter sauce,” $15), and Peter ordered the Pub Burger with cheddar cheese ($8). The fish was well-cooked, if a bit over done, but it was nicely seasoned and flavorful.  Peter’s burger?  “I’ve had much better,” was all he would say.

As soon as we had finished eating, our waiter was at our table, asking if we’d like to hear about dessert or order another pint.  We declined, but it was clear that he was still feeling guilty about ignoring us for the better part of an hour.  He started asking us where we lived, how we liked Nashville, if we had been to any good shows lately.  It was classic Nashville small talk until I started firing questions back.  How does he like the job?  Does he go home smelling like beer?  Is that a good thing or not?

Before long, it became clear to me that my conversation had greatly piqued the interest of our waiter, despite the obvious fact that I was dining with my husband.  His answers grew wittier.  He threw in a wink or two.  I found it all, to say the least, entertaining.  We asked for the check, and he said he’d be right back.

“Wow, dinner and a show!” I said to Peter when we were finally alone.  “This has been a very strange night.”

“Do you think he’s drunk?” Peter replied, trying to make sense of it all.

Before I could answer, the waiter was back, empty-handed.  “You guys are all good,” he said, smiling and winking once more before disappearing again.

Peter looked at me, confused.  “What does that mean?”

“I think it means that we are not paying for this meal.”

Peter’s moral compass started spinning; I could tell from the look in his eyes.

“Maybe he just wants to be sure we’ll come back,” I ventured.

Peter shook his head.  “I think you’re going to like it here,” he said.

I think he’s right.

Yes, please: Rainbow Trout ($15, a bit overpriced, but a tasty bite nonetheless). English Fish and Chips (“Icelandic cod, dipped in our favorite ale batter, served with fries and cole slaw,” $12; classic pub grub cooked adequately enough to be reminiscent of the real thing). Steak and Biscuits (“Homemade ale biscuits wrapped around tender chunks of filet, served with fries and cole slaw,” $11; simple yet satisfying).

No, thanks: Artichoke Chicken (“Sautéed chicken breast with an artichoke and mushroom cream sauce, served over linguini topped with scallions,” $14; entirely too heavy to pair with beer, sauce is overwhelmingly creamy with little flavor, chicken portion is too small for whole meal, artichoke taste is abrupt and jarring).

Yum!

Suzy Wong’s House of Yum, 1515 Church Street.

Lunch, dinner, and late night dining.

Top Chef D.C. had me at hello.  I mean, seriously.  When John Somerville flopped his dreadlocks over his shoulder during the opening credits only to be the first eliminated because of making a dessert from frozen puff pastry?!  We’re talking television magic.

But then the real magic hit me.  Chef Arnold Myint is from Nashville, where he owns three restaurants.  And he’s only 32.  And he used to be a professional figure skater.  And now I live in Nashville.  And I’m no where near as accomplished or driven.  Surely, my eating in one of his restaurants will result in a little bit of that youthful determination trickling down to me, right?

So, to Suzy Wong’s House of Yum it was.  We were smart, having learned from our time in Europe that making a reservation is your only surefire guarantee of eating in popular place with a small dining room, and called ahead.  When we arrived, the place had a small line of couples waiting for a table.  We walked past them all, told the hostess our name, and were seated right away, albeit a little too conspicuously for my taste.  The dining room is even smaller than the online photos led me to believe, and we sat directly behind the hostess booth at a table within arm’s length of that line of hungry diners.  We quickly ordered drinks to fend off the angry stares.

We took a bit longer to peruse the food menu, and I was happy to see that this was yet another place I could potentially bring my vegan, vegetarian, and/or gluten-free friends.  We ordered the Asian Wonton Nachos Deluxe (“BBQ Pork, Queso Blanco, Edamame, Cilantro Pico, Sriracha, & Red Curry Crema,” $10) because I’m a sucker for a $1 upgrade to deluxe anything, especially if that upgrade includes BBQ pork).  We had requested this shared plate as an appetizer, but no sooner had it arrived then we were bombarded with our mains, as well.  Peter’s was the Coconut Chili Fried Brown Rice w/ Egg ($8), and he has a way of diving into a dish after a successful first taste that lets me know he is in heaven.  I try not to interrupt these rapturous moments, and so I began to work on my dish, the Sesame Tuna Loin (“Pickled Cucumber with Wasabi Ponzu Dressing,” $11).  I have been on the hunt for the perfect rare tuna ever since my honeymoon four years ago in Vancouver where I had the most delectable and perfectly flavorful rare tuna over a bed of garlic mashed potatoes that I have ever tasted.  It was in one of the restaurants attached to a hotel, but for the life of me, I cannot remember which one, which is probably God’s way of telling me to let go of my dream of finding that chef and kidnapping him or her until I have perfected the recipe myself.  But my hunt for that perfect tuna still consumes much of my time and energy and forces me to order tuna nearly everywhere I go.

Finally, my friends, I am excited to tell you that I have found a suitable rival for that dish that haunts my dreams.  This Sesame Tuna Loin, a deep and royal magenta flesh surrounded by the spicy savoriness of wasabi and pickled cucumber, might be the greatest fish find in Nashville, and you would do well to make your reservation and order it tonight.