One Night in Nashville

Us New Yorkers were debating whether there was a need to “go out” in Nashville, Tennessee. We had just consumed a luxurious meal at F. Scott’s Restaurant & Jazz Bar where seared scallops cooked in barbecue sauce was consumed (¡nunca máis!) along with some type of ordinary fish cooked rather ordinarily. It’s amazing how spoiled you become living in The City where even the finest restaurant anywhere else in the world is, well, “ordinary” (apologies to anyone outside of NYC reading this, but one cannot tell a lie).

But the live jazz music seeping out of the bar area into the dark corner of the restaurant where we were placed with a clientele of grandmothers and great-great-aunts was good. Too bad it was over by the time we had finished eating.

F. Scott’s owner was a big fan of the famous writer the restaurant is named after, but she wanted it call it Zelda’s (which I agree is a much sexier name) after the author’s wife. However, that name was already taken. I’ll admit the restaurant’s name was one of was my deciding factors (I’ve also dined at the excellent Hemingway‘s in Killington, Vermont) and because J. Kerouac Diner & Bistro had prematurely died in a car crash.

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Our motel in Music Row was within walking distance of the Nashville nightlife epicenter, so we drove the half a mile to the famed Tootsies Orchid Lounge, which the New York Times characterized as “[a] rowdy country dive [that] has been a Nashville tradition since the days when the Grand Ole Opry was still performing in the Ryman Auditorium around the corner.” It sounded like the logical place to find the natives in their familiar surroundings.

Upon entrance, we saw young men with shaven baby faces and flannel shirts tucked into washed out Bugle Boy jeans. They were, of course, sporting cowboy hats and had one arm around a big-bosomed bombshell and I immediately understood where the term “Tennessee-blond” came from. A local country music (what else?) radio station was sponsoring an open mike event. There was a Trisha Yearwood (as if I know who that is)-looking woman singing at one of the two stages. I quietly slipped out my camera and captured this quintessential moment in Southern Americana which, until that moment, I had only sang along to in Hank Williams songs.

At the bar, I ordered a Coors light (what else?) over the chant of the local NFL team’s name (as if I know who they are). Oh that’s right, it was Monday night and all across Real America chicken wings were selling out and nacho cheese flowed like the Niagara. The bartender didn’t look old enough to drink so why was she serving me, I wondered. We took our drinks back to the stage and watched the rest of the country singer’s set. All the while, surrounding us in crooked poster frames were the ghosts of Patsy Cline and Roger Miller.

One drink was enough. We had gotten a taste of what we wanted to see: Real America. And it was just right. I had no desire to further this vision. As we got up to leave, one of the aforedescribed young men in cowboy hats walked past us, retreated his steps, and then spoke.

“Do you guys mind if I sit here for a moment?”

Our glasses were clearly empty, but the man was drunk. He took a seat and started to talk.

“I was watching you up there taking photos,” he said, sitting between Kelly and me but looking only at me. Several times during the night, I had noted to myself that I was indeed the only non-White person in a bar of hundreds, but I was used to that. Comfortable with it, in fact.

“And I said to myself,” the Real American went on. “Man, you are cool! There’s something different about you,” he said, and then looking at Kelly, “And he’s got this really cool haircut…”

Kelly started to giggle.

Here I was thinking I was experiencing a new culture and lifestyle for the first time that it completely slipped from my mind that it worked both ways.

“It’s different you know. It’s long and straight and so dark. I mean look at my hair,” he said, removing his Indiana Jones hat and tussling a blond military buzz cut. “Ahhhhh, no! NO!!! No, please don’t look,” he said, covering his head with both hands. “It’s so hideous.”

Kelly exploded into laughter but he paid her no attention.

“So, what brings you here?” I asked, yawning, falling asleep, tired.

“Well, I’m here with my fiancée. Look, we just got married. And we’re out here celebrating. Wooooooooo-ha.”

“So, your fiancee is here?” I asked, looking around.

A waitress was standing at our table. She caught me by surprise because she didn’t look like anyone else at the bar. She had dark hair and wore a glittery rock-and-roll t-shirt. She could’ve been serving me at any bar in Brooklyn.

“Y’all alright?” she asked, her southern twang suddenly giving her away.

We nodded. She left.

“You mean you left your brand new beautiful FIANCÉE all alone in this crowded bar to talk to US?” I continued.

“Yeah… HEY! Oh, I get it!” he said. “I see that you’re trying to get rid of me. FINE!” Then he dramatically stood up and turned away.

Before he had a chance to change his mind, Kelly and I had slipped out the door.