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).