TIE O’ THE DAY is putting away the Nashville file, so these are the last photos from the trip I wanted to post.
First is a snapshot of me and one of the gryphon statues inside The Parthenon. We gave each other a high-5 of sorts.
Next, I present photos of more bottles of wine I didn’t buy. I find the wines’ outlaw-y names an interesting theme for marketing wine. It’s puzzling too, cuz I see this jail theme for hawking spirits mostly in the south, although not exclusively.
Next, I alert you to a restaurant called MERCHANTS for a meal and a shoeshine. I ate the most incredible sandwich there: a salmon BLT. If Suzanne were telling this, she would write about the waitress who was enamored with me and my bow tie and my backpack and my jacket and my being a writer… Well, you get the drift. And then Suzanne would tell you about how the waitress kept finding reasons to come to our table during our meal, and about how once it became clear to said waitress that Suzanne and I would be leaving the restaurant and Nashville together—no if’s, and’s, or but’s—the waitress who had fawned all over me from the minute we came in— well, she practically threw the receipt at me. And I had even given her a bigly tip. Suzanne would tell you all of that happened. But you won’t hear a word about all of that juicy news from me. I don’t write gossip! To me, it was smashing food, with just the teensiest hint o’ drama. I can’t promise you that your experience at MERCHANTS would be the same as mine if you went there, but if you want your ego boosted or somebody you’re eating with to get semi-jealous, it’s worth a shot. We did eat there a second time (different wait staff), and it was all yummy food; compliments on the Bow Tie o’ the Day; and zero drama. When the waiter at MERCHANTS leaves your check, they also leave a MERCHANTS postcard for you. My postcard came with a bow tie picture, of course.
And finally, I ran into a Jim Reeves record poster. (And if you don’t know Jim Reeves’ music, don’t you dare say you are a country music fan. He’s long dead, but he’s still relevant.) Jim Reeves’ song, “He’ll Have To Go” is Mom’s fave of his songs. All through my kidhood, she sang it when she was happy, and she sang it when she was sad. Even as kid, I could tell just by how she sang it what mood she was in. She’d be ironing or cooking or mopping, and she’d sing the first line—”Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone”—and I immediately knew by her voice’s tension whether I should hide underneath the built-in bunkbeds for an hour or two, or whether it was a perfect time to ask for a new toy. If Mom were a poker player, how she sang that line would be her “tell.”
