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…

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.

Good Boy, Fido.

Fido, 1812 21st Ave. S., Hillsboro Village.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and brunch.

My husband has a serious addiction to books.  He insists it’s not a problem, that he has it all under control, that we are not going to have to construct a shelter out of them someday when our money runs out because of his insatiable appetite for them.  I don’t believe him, and a morning spent at BookMan/BookWoman only deepens my conviction.  While he’s luxuriating in the Philosophy section, I tell him I can’t take it any more.  I’m leaving.  For coffee.

I dash across 21st Avenue and get a few angry looks and car honks as I weave among the waiting traffic.  There is always so much traffic on this street, so much road rage.  I vow to avoid the fray; there has to be another way to get here.

I head toward the people lounging at bistro tables along the sprawling windows of Fido, underneath a sign directing patrons to a nonexistent “Jones Pet Shop.”  I walk through the door and am ambushed by the bustle.  It’s the kind of place I’m sure I will grow to love but that intimidates my need for caffeine almost right out of me.  Everyone has a place, or a person.  But all I have is a headache.

I consider dashing back across the street, knocking the books out of my husband’s hands, and dragging him back over here with me, but I decide that my timidity might fade with a little time and a lot of caffeine.  I get in line and stare at the menu on the wall.  I’ve worked at two coffee shops in my day, and I’m well aware that a favorite pastime of the barristas is watching the customers’ eyes glaze over and mouths fall open as they try to discern what they are wanting.  So I resist the urge; the line is long and getting longer by the second.

I decide to play it safe.  “Coffee, please?” is all I offer to the casually cool young man behind the register.

“Coffee?” he replies.  “Regular coffee?”

I nod, nervously.  “Just coffee.”

“What size?”

Size: the holy grail of coffee shop embarrassment.  Is it a tall, a small, a medium, a regular, a double, a single?  I glance at the menu and try to keep my mouth shut.  “Medium?” I ask for permission.

He tells me my total and takes my money.  He hands me a mug.  I’m too nervous to move.  He points to the self-service coffee station.  “I just… I just…” I stutter.  He smiles.  “I’m new!” I insist.  He keeps smiling.

Better luck next time, I tell myself, as I find a seat under some local art I decide I want.  My husband comes in, book in hand.  “How’s the coffee?” he asks.

I smile.  “Really good.  Also, we’re getting this.  We need us some friends in high places.”

We’ve been talkin’ ’bout Jackson’s…

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).