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).