Love at the Loveless Cafe

14 December 2009

Having left Illinois and that icy chill behind us, we're back into Tennessee, this time cutting diagonally across the state in a southeasterly fashion via. Goal? Why, Nashville, of course! We're both favorably inclined toward country music, purely of the non-Jesus-taking-the-wheel sort. Bring on Hank, Johnny and Loretta—and keep your Faith, Taylor and Keith. I'm having a bit of a love affair with Waylon Jennings currently, having downloaded his greatest hits in some sort of feverish state while shacked up in a hotel room in Shangri La with Louise. Anyway, this is our chance to soak up this truly American cultural art form in an environment where no one can make fun of us, because we at least didn't show up in fringe.

So off we go to the Country Music Hall of Fame. Even Lonely Planet says this is acceptable when in Nashville, so it must be. Special exhibits on Brenda Lee (personally, I didn't know she sang anything except Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree, but there you go. Education.) Apparently she's huge in Japan. The other is on the Williams family, as in Hank, Hank Junior, and Hank the Third, and their shared penchant for anger and dangerous substances and being called Hank even though they weren't (Hiram, Randall, and Shelton respectively). And who doesn't love an angry drunk guy who can sing? I truly believe country music in general would be infinitely better if there was more unrepentant alcoholism in evidence.

The museum itself is gorgeous and very well done, with such gems as a Webb Pierce's Caddy customized with pistols for door handles and gen-u-wine longhorns for a hood ornament. Also Elvis' gold piano, Minnie Pearl's hat, and the cornfield set from Hee-Haw. Having spent a goodly amount of my childhood watching Hee-Haw with my dad, I was very excited about this.

Outside, we strolled Broadway, home to bars and boots. The football stadium is at the end of the street, and as the Titans were playing that afternoon, there were plenty of men about, all manned up...in powder blue. Everyone else was a middle aged tourist wincing along in new cowboy boots. One shop had a series of posters starring rodeo heroes—including a five-year old 'Mutton Buster'. Did you know that your very own 4-9 year old could be out there winning belt buckles on the sheep-riding circuit? Because I didn't. But now I do.

For lunch we drove a bit out of town to the Loveless Cafe. Now, I've had a lot of Southern food in the last few weeks (and fyi, if anyone is buying me clothes for Christmas, I will need a larger size). But this place was the best meal I've had anywhere. Mostly because I love biscuits, and they make absolutely lush ones here from a secret recipe, and they give you bowls of them with your food. Blissful sigh...and there's real pan-fried chicken, and greens and creamed corn and beans cooked with bacon and pork tenderloin bbq'd with peach preserves. Soooo good. If you ever find yourself 17 miles from Nashville and very hungry, go there.

Down a stretch of the Natchez Trace parkway, with hickory trees and green grass and hills and dells. And plenty of opportunity to pee on the side of the road—because we both find ourselves scouting for sites these days. You never know when you'll need to go. Drove through Lynchburg, home to Jack Daniels himself. It was evening, so we didn't stop for much, but it looks like a very pretty town. The irony, of course, being that this is a dry county, and you cannot therefore actually buy JD anywhere nearby. We slid right on through Chattanooga, home to the choo-choo of song, though sadly not in evidence today because the GPS woman is being bitchy. Cow.