Jackson’s Bar and Bistro, 1800 21st Ave. S., Hillsboro Village.
Lunch, dinner, and weekend brunch.
On a sweltering early summer day, my husband and I returned to our Nashville hotel around six o’clock, sweaty and sunburned from a day of unloading our possessions from the ten-foot Uhaul that had barely survived the journey from New Jersey. It was your typical moving nightmare– we underestimated the amount of stuff we owned, we overestimated how far our budget would stretch, and we were all alone, left to unpack the boxes and furniture and books we had wedged in between any available crevice. Only this move came with a wrinkle that was heretofore impossible to conjure, waking or sleeping. Our new city had, only two days before our arrival, been hit with a monsoon that resulted in historic floods and destruction. We felt a comparatively minor impact, to be sure, but we nonetheless found ourselves unloading everything we owned into second-floor storage spaces, alongside longtime Nashvillians who were panicked to salvage their stuff. After long showers and longer naps, we called the only Nashvillian we knew and asked for a restaurant recommendation. He said he’d meet us at Jackson’s.
Our luck had changed, and we knew it the minute we pulled right into one of the coveted parking spots beside the restaurant. Our friend met us at a table on the patio, and I sat on a chair with a view of the bustling street. Conversations wafted around the space, competing with the breezes and aromas for my attention. I ordered a Jackson’s Pale Ale on the advice of our friend and tried to relax. Having spent last summer in Germany and having lived for seven months in the UK, it takes a really special beer to do anything for me. Sadly, this one wasn’t doing it. But no sooner had I made this judgment than my food arrived, and my drink no longer mattered.
I ordered the steak frites (“aged 10-oz. sirloin grilled to order with garlic butter and crisp fries,” $18) with a chopped salad (“romaine, cucumbers, peppers & chickpeas w/roma tomatoes,” included with entrée). The steak came sizzling off the grill, melting in my mouth and providing that perfect marriage with my garlic-butter-soaked fries. I felt like the food gods of Nashville were welcoming me home.
Subsequent trips, however, have been a little disappointing, and I’m beginning to realize that my initial infatuation might have had more to do with the events surrounding my first visit (and the still extant early summer breezes) than with the actual quality of the place. Still, whenever friends or family come into town, we can’t seem to resist at least one night on Jackson’s patio, even after a waiter absentmindedly spilled fruit tea all over my mother-in-law.
Yes, please: Ahi Wasabi Caesar Salad (“Sesame-seared ahi tuna on romaine w/ wasabi-Caesar dressing,” $11; excellent portion, tuna served properly rare, refreshing). Chicken Salad Torrado (“Baked chicken, mandarin oranges, provolone & tomato,” $7.50; warm and savory). Cookie-Dough Egg Rolls (“Chocolate-chip dough flash fried in pastry w/chocolate sauce & vanilla ice cream,” $6.50; sinful, messy, a challenge to eat– but worth the effort).
No, thanks: Fish Sandwich (“Soy-brushed ahi tuna filet grilled to order on a Fuego bun,” $8.50; too much bun, fish not grilled to order).
The Nashville Chow 
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