Bar-B-Que Authenticity Reaches its Limits in the Exurbs of Nashville

Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint
7238 Nolensville Rd.
Nolensville, TN





The name of this place is Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint.

So what do we know about this place right off the bat?

Right. It’s not going to be an authentic bar-b-que joint.

Because authentic bar-b-que joints don’t call themselves “joints”.

It’s kind of like the difference between my authentic redneck friends and the ones that call themselves rednecks.

My authentic redneck friends don’t even know that they are rednecks. In fact, they might even be mildly insulted if I referred to them as such.

So I don’t.

Of course my nouveau redneck friends would take it as a compliment.

Another reason I walked through the front door of Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint with a mind full of suspicion was the address.

Nolensville, Tennessee.

This is Exurban Hell, USA.

Twenty-five miles south of Nashville, Nolensville is one of those quiet rural towns that have the misfortune of being within commuting distance of a big city.

Exurbs like Nolensville are where white Republicans flee to when they tire of the indignities of urban and suburban life.

Or when they have kids. And they’ve convinced themselves that the government schools in the exurbs have vastly superior ability to shape their children’s’ young minds of mush, ignoring the fact that higher test scores are nothing more than a reflection of the demographics of the kids being tested, not any competence on the part of the government.

Yep. Southern exurbs like Nolensville are the types of places where the 22% of the registered voters who actually voted for Obama won’t admit it to the other 78%.

Where Republicans move to when they want the simplicity of rural living but can’t bear to give up Home Depot or Starbucks.

Drive in a circle 30 miles around any major Southern city and you will notice the trend too.

Cookie-cutter brick McMansions on three-quarter acre lots. Minivans and SUVs. Applebee’s and Panera Bread.

In my opinion, exurban living is the worst trend since heterosexual men started wearing jeans with those faggity ass swirls on the pockets.

My problem with the exurbs is they lack authenticity.

The whole point of rural living is to slow down and immerse yourself is a culture that is genuine and timeless.

Where everyone knows everyone.

Where the old man at the mom and pop hardware store speaks with such a thick drawl you can only comprehend every third word – but you nod your head anyway.

Where the local pitmaster runs a bar-b-que joint that really is a joint, has been a joint for decades, and he would be somewhat offended if you told him so.

But in exurban towns like Nolensville such remnants of genuine rural living quickly become displaced by urban refugees and relocated Yankees willing to commute two hours per day to get a taste of country living, no matter how inauthentic.

I mean it’s fun to claim you’ve moved out to the country as long as you don’t have to smell cow manure, ride behind a slow moving tractor or get your Range Rover repaired by some toothless yokel.

Situated in a modern suburban strip mall, Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint is a perfect metaphor for the town in which it resides.

Or so I thought.

Sometimes you have to let the bar-b-que speak for itself.

The first thing I noticed is that there is nothing inauthentic about the smoke billowing out of the big black smoke pit smack dab in the middle of the restaurant.

That’s a smell, my friends, that can’t be faked.

Martin’s slowly smokes its pork and beef over hard wood for hours.

This place might be as polished as the granite counter tops in the custom homes popping up down the street, but the bar-b-que is strictly old school.

I ordered the “Redneck Taco” -- which in reality is neither.

While no authentic redneck would ever order it, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t delicious.

The “Redneck Taco” is a slab of corn bread with pulled pork, cole slaw and tangy bar-b-que sauce piled on top.

While Martin’s offers a variety of sauce, it chooses to ladle its thin vinegary tomato-based sauce on top of the cole slaw. The result is a tangy, crunchy condiment for the pulled pork below.

Meanwhile the base of this “taco”, the corn bread, soaks up the drippy tasty remnants from the pork, slaw and sauce.

The pork itself benefits well from all these complimentary flavors and textures. It was a bit dry and bland by itself.

The baked beans were top notch, spiked with green pepper and lots of brown sugar.

The walls of this exurban “joint” are decorated with Southern kitsch -- rebel flags, license plates, trucker caps and portraits of pigs and Hank Williams, all carefully staged in a deliberately haphazard arraignment.

A steady stream of kick-ass Outlaw Country poured from the restaurant’s sound system. You just don’t hear the authentic sounds of Merle Haggard, David Allen Coe and Loretta Lynn on the radio anymore.

This is the brand of music the Music Row suits 25 miles north of here banished from the light of day. These are the people responsible for shoving unartistic pop country crap down our throats and out across America’s airwaves.

And I’m quite sure many of these are the same people responsible for turning the dairy farms around Nolensville into house farms -- and after their long commute home from Music Row come to Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint where they can get themselves some authentic bar-b-que while listening to authentic country music.

For some people this is as authentic as they want to get.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

How to Satisfy those Honky-Tonk Beer Munchies

Robert’s Western World
416 Broadway
Nashville, TN





You ever notice how a good greasy meal at midnight doesn’t actually need to be good to be good?

You know what I’m talking about.

After a night of honky-tonkin’ up and down Nashville’s infamous Lower Broadway, fried shoe leather on a bun starts to look as good as Kate Upton losing a water balloon fight.

I’m pretty sure “beer munchies” derives from that same part of the brain as “beer goggles” -- only with milder next morning consequences.

I’d like to brag to you that Suit757 was in such a sudsy state of mind at midnight when I ordered my cheeseburger and onion rings from the hot plate in back of Robert’s Western World.

But that would be a lie.

I made this decision stone sober.

Scary enough. But this isn’t Suit757’s first rodeo. Or first visit to Lower Broad.

I’ve done this enough to know that Robert’s Western World is Nashville’s top oasis of real music in the creative wasteland that is “Music City.”

And the tiny flat top out back is one of the few places in town not named Waffle House to eat after the witching house.

Now, understand, nobody comes to Robert’s Western World to eat.

They come to drink beer, soak up the retro atmosphere and hear the best traditional country music in town.

Eating sometimes becomes a byproduct of the above. Which, I guess is why they put the little griddle back there in the first place.

After a long typical Suit757 day of driving across the breadth of Mississippi, Alabama and Tennessee, I finally checked into my Comfort Inn at a quarter to midnight, checked out of my suit and headed down to that stretch of touristy honky-tonks in downtown Nashville.

Literally in the shadow of the famed Ryman Auditorium, home of the original Grand Ole Opry (until the corporate hacks moved it to the suburbs), a strip of decades old honky-tonks lines Lower Broadway.

If you are “in the know” like Suit757, you can bypass the annoying bouncers out front by cutting through the alley out back next to the Ryman. All the honky-tonks have back doors utilized by the locals.

Three doors down, Tootsies is famous as the place where Willie Nelson and Patsy Cline’s husband got drunk one night and wrote “Crazy”, the most played song in the history of the juke box.

On the other side is The Stage on Broadway, which sports an awesome mural of Merle Haggard hocking George Dickel Whiskey with a tag line that reads, “Water’s for teardrops, Dickel’s for drinking.”

But the live music these resurrected tourist traps feature is the typical cheesy pop country pabulum that passes these days for creativity in this town.

Some dude from Upstate New York awkwardly wearing a cowboy hat singing about tractors and honeysuckle and crap that appeals to 55 year old housewives.

If you are looking for REAL country music in the Country Music Capital of the World, Robert’s Western World is about the only place you can find it.

Every night, you’ll find a real deal talented band that always features pedal steel guitar and upright bass and singer with more talent than all the fake pretty boys this town produces in a year.

BR5-49 used to play here before hitting it big time -- or, at least as big as big time can get playing this genre of music.

The setting is as authentic as it gets.

A former Western wear apparel store, the shelves are still lined with cowboy boots for sale.

The bartenders and waitresses are dressed straight out of central casting from a 1950s hipster stage set. Lots of pink hair dye, mousse and tattoos.

I found a spot at the bar in the back right in front of the little griddle.

Being the only sober guy in the joint, I desperately ordered up a Yazoo Pale Ale, a nice hoppy local Nashville brew.

My second choice was less inspired.

Dos Perros, also brewed by Yazoo, is supposed to be a “Mexican style” beer.

Look, I like Mexicans as much as any other gringo.

Chimichangas and mole? Sure.

But I’m not sure Mexican-style beer is a genre that begs for replication.

It tasted like a Corona without the lime. No thanks.

While the Yazoos were $4.50 each, I was able to score a Miller High Life for less than half the price.

Bargain!

That’s a fraction of the cost of a similar quality beer at Tootsies. With a much better soundtrack.

The best thing I can say about the burger is it is cheap and quick.

This isn’t gourmet.

The grill man chisels a block off a stack of frozen burgers and tosses the hard disk onto the flat top.

The onion rings are frozen too, of course.

But the man knows what he’s doing.

He’s like the Michelangelo of frozen meat product.

In ten minutes, the previously frozen block of beef has been transformed into a juicy tender burger with just a trace of pink in the middle. Topped with lettuce, tomato and a slice of raw onion, I’ve had much worse burgers for double the price.

Best of all were all the jealous looks from all the inebriated tourists surrounding me at the bar struck with beer-munchie-envy.

“Dayyyymmmn! That looks goooood!”

Within moments the grill man went from sedately enjoying the talents of the band to being busier than an IRS agent at a Tea Party rally.

Suit757 the trend setter. That’s me. Always on the cutting edge.

Like I said, sometimes you don’t have to be good to be good.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Singing the Deep Fried Beale Street Burger Blues

Dyer’s Burgers
205 Beale St.
Memphis, TN




“Memphis is not what it used to be.”
      -- Texas songwriter Owen Temple from his song “Memphis”


No, Memphis is not.

I suppose most folks think that’s a good thing, especially when you hear Will Shade, leader of the legendary Memphis Jug Band describe Memphis’ infamous Beale Street about a century ago:

"You could walk down the street in the days of 1900 and like that and you could find a man wit’ throat cut from ear to ear.

"Also you could find people lyin’ dead wit’ not their throat cut, money took and everything in their pockets, took out of their pockets and thrown outside the house.

"Sometimes you find them with no clothes on, throwed out of winders here on Beale Street. Sportin’ class o’ women runnin’ up and down the street all night long."

After reading that, I suppose I grudgingly agree it’s a good thing too.

I’m not all that keen on having my throat cut.

But there is something sad about such an iconic part of America existing now as nothing but a memory -- and a 21st Century Disneyesque mockery of the blues.

At least that is what Beale Street has become.

And if you don’t think that is an indictment of all of Memphis, consider the words of the great B.B. King, whose B.B. King’s Blues Club now stands as the flagship Disneyesque attraction on Beale Street:

"I don’t think of Memphis as Memphis. I thought of Beale Street as Memphis."

Before the days of urban renewal, Beale Street was the place black people from all over the mid-South and Mississippi Delta came to live, work, party and die.

All of it to the soundtrack of the blues -- the soulful, haunting sound that gave birth to almost every form of modern popular music from rock n’ roll to R&B to hip hop.

Beale Street was a bustling, bubbling gumbo of sweaty fun.

Beale Street entertainer Rufus Thomas once said, “If you were black for one Saturday night and on Beale Street, never would you want to be white again.”

But just about all of THAT Beale Street is long gone, plowed under by progress, so called.

The black juke joints were replaced with Coyote Ugly and the Hard Rock Café.

Drunken black revelers from the Delta replaced with drunken white tourists from Des Moines and Buffalo.

Authentic, gritty, gut bucket blues replaced with what I derisively call “tourist blues” -- countless repetitions of “Mustang Sally” and “She’s a Brick…

…House”.

Gag.

But I’m happy to say there is one piece of old Memphis that survives to this day.

The grease at Dyer’s Burgers.

Yes. Dyers’ has been deep frying burgers in a cauldron of hot grease that has not been changed in over a century.

You read that right.

Dyer’s deep fries its burgers.

And Dyer’s has never changed the grease. Not once in 101 years.

Oh sure, at 4am last call, one of Dyer’s employees will strain out all the burger and fry remainders and occasionally add some fresh oil to the mix, but change the grease?

No way. It’s never been done.

In fact, the Memphis police gave Dyer’s skillet of precious grease an armed police escort across town when Dyer’s relocated to 205 Beale Street years ago.

Awesome!

And you know what makes it even more awesome?

Sticking it to nanny state Communist dictators like New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg telling me how many ounces of Coke I can buy.

I feel like I’m giving the fascists trying to run my life a giant middle finger when I sink my teeth into such an unhealthy grease-laden indulgence as a Dyer’s burger.

The beef patty and cheese are submerged in Dyer’s gurgling heirloom grease for a few moments and then placed on a soft squooshy bun.

The result is hot, gooey burger bliss.

Especially at midnight after an evening of too many renditions of “Mustang Sally” and Beale Street Big Ass Beers.

Admittedly, my Suit757 palate was a bit numbed by the time it got to be Dyer’s time.

But one thing I have no doubt about -- the decadence of a Dyer’s burger standing in the middle of Beale Street at midnight is one of life’s great sinful pleasures.

Granted, no one other than Michael Bloomberg would compare this sort of sinfulness to that displayed on Beale Street in the time of Will Shade and Rufus Thomas.

But at least I won’t get my throat cut for it.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

A Memphis Barbeque Brush with Danger

Payne’s Bar-B-Q
1762 Lamar Ave.
Memphis, TN



Good barbeque often involves a bit of danger.

No. Not the danger that you’ll be making a middle of the night trip to the local Urgent Care with a bad case of food poisoning.

(Smoking meat for a dozen hours over hickory usually compensates for bacteria-laden lapses in FDA regulations.)

The danger I’m talking about is physical danger.

You know. Like getting shot or mugged.

Stuff like that.

Like every other big Southern city, Memphis has its share of shady neighborhoods -- places where white guys in suits just don’t go.

But that’s why we call this website “Suits in Strange Places.”

Any Suit worth his brief case knows that the best barbeque can always be found in the worst ‘hoods.

So in a city as inextricably linked to good barbeque as any other in the world (with apologies to Lexington, Lockhart and Kansas City), it was no surprise to me that my research led me to a run-down cinder block joint in the “bad” part of Memphis.

Just to reassure myself, I met up with a couple Suit757 cousins from Memphis who happen to be in the restaurant business.

If anyone is going to be intimately aware of both the smoky virtues and dangers of Payne’s, it’s got to be my culinary expert local kin folk, right?

“So, have you ever been to Payne’s?”

Cousin 757 #1: “Never heard of it. Have you ever heard of it,” she asked turning to her boyfriend.

“Nope. Where is it?”

Suit757: “On Lamar.”

Knowing glances all around.

“Oh, well, yeah. We don’t go to that part of town.”

Well that wasn’t helpful.

I had more confidence in cousin 757 #2, who tends to be a bit more adventurous.

“Have you ever heard of Payne’s?”

Cousin 757 #2: “Oh, sure. It’s on Lamar.”

“Ever been there?”

Cousin 757 #2: “Heck no!”

Not the reassurance I was looking for.

“But someone did bring me a carry out sandwich from there once. It was good.”

My cuz wasn’t kidding.

Payne’s serves up one of the greatest ‘que sandwiches that has ever slid past my taste buds.

Having wrapped up a meeting across the river in Arkansas, stomach growling, I raced my rental car with anticipation to this smoky former auto repair shop.

I’m not saying I’d return at midnight to hang with the locals, but Payne’s neighborhood didn’t seem too dangerous at lunch hour.

Sure there were a few sketchy dudes loitering around the empty lots across the street, but once I opened Payne’s front door and entered the heavenly smoke-filled confines, any lingering concerns about personal safety melted away like the fat on a slow smoked pork shoulder.

The atmosphere at Payne’s can be summed up with one word: smoke.

There are no decorations on the walls -- unless you count the 1970s-era window-mounted air conditioner puncturing the cinder blocks.

Even if there were decorative touches, you couldn’t see them anyway through the fog of sweet smelling hickory smoke.

A few bare bulbs hang haphazardly from a ceiling consisting of a quilt-work of water-stained tiles and ply wood.

Mismatched chairs and benches are pushed up under red checkerboard vinyl table coverings.

Each table is topped with nothing more than a dispenser of those cheap tiny napkins that are too small to stay put on your lap.

The mid-day southern sun barely penetrates the stained window coverings and hazy interior darkness.

There is no sound track except for the hack of the cleaver on the cutting board.

Five anticipation-filled minutes after I placed my order and handed the friendly lady at the counter my cash, she slid me a monstrosity of a sandwich on a Styrofoam plate barely big enough.

Between the oversized buns was a mountain of chopped pig meat drenched in a rich red BBQ sauce.

But that’s not all.

On top of the meat and on top of the sauce was a glob of neon yellow cole slaw.

That’s the way a classic pig sandwich is done here in barbeque capital of America. In Memphis, slaw is a barbeque condiment -- not a side dish.

That’s just fine with Suit757.

Cole slaw on the sandwich is how they roll in Virginia and North Carolina too, where Suit757 has spent many a happy afternoon unwrapping the wax paper off of various ‘que sandwiches and chowing down.

But as I stared at the colorful pile of pork, cabbage and sauce before me, I knew it would be challenge just to pick the darn thing up off the plate, let alone keep the various components off of my suit and tie.

By the time I finished half the sandwich, it was reduced to something out of an overly gory horror movie -- slaw, sauce and pork drippings scattered across the plate and table cloth.

It was mess, no doubt.

But a gloriously delicious mess.

A kaleidoscope of textures, flavor and color, the pork was smoky and sweet with the kiss of hickory, some parts soft and white and some crunchy and dark.

The yellow slaw added crunch too in addition to a mustardy/vinegary tang that perfectly complimented the meat.

The tomato-based peppery sauce was advertised as “hot”, but as the counter lady told me, “most folks don’t find it too crazy hot.”

All three flavors together added up to one of the best barbeque experiences of my life.

In fact, I would risk my life to eat here.

Even if I didn’t REALLY feel like I was risking my life, maybe the anticipation of a brush with danger added to the whole Memphis barbeque experience.

Just think, now I can brag to my friends and cousins about how I ventured into the part of town they won’t go to get the best barbeque sandwich in Memphis.

In fact…I think I just did.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Southern Fried Nirvana

Arnold’s
605 8th Ave. South
Nashville, TN

I’ve written about that Middle Tennessee institution known as “the meat-and-three” on several occasions now.

But, on yet another trip through Trashville, I felt it was now time to quit fooling around and review the pinnacle of meat-and-threes – the granddaddy of them all – Arnold’s.

What makes Arnold’s the greatest?

Simple. Really, really good food.

That’s it.

Trust me, it’s not the atmosphere, service or the location.

Literally on the wrong side of the tracks (actually about 100 feet from the railroad overpass to be exact), in a run-down industrial section of south Nashville, Arnold’s is mobbed at lunchtime five days a week by perfectly respectable businessmen, cops and record company executives.

(Well, okay, you’re right, there’s nothing respectable about Nashville record company executives, but you get the idea.)

While the staff at Arnold’s is Southern-friendly as can be, the service is pretty much do-it-yourself.

First you stand in a long line that often stretches all the way to the front door. As you contemplate what slow-cooked Southern delicacies you are going to consume today, you inch along in the cafeteria line by pie (always first in a real meat-and-three), then lard-flavored vegetables and finally meat.

Kinda like how they always make you walk through the entire damn grocery store to get the beer section. This is classic meat-and-three prioritization.

Once you tell the man behind the counter which three vegetables and which meat you want, you slide your tray to the cash register, pick out your sweet tea and pay the lady at the cash register.

Then the real adventure begins. Finding a table to sit and eat all this goodness at in the tiny packed dining room.

If you’re a single suit like me (suits rarely travel in pairs), you may need to share a table. But don’t worry about awkward conversation-starters with strangers. Everybody’s too busy concentrating on appreciating the exquisite goodness in every bite of this destination-dining institution.

So why do so many Nashvillites endure this hassle? The trek to the wrong side of town, the long wait, the table hovering?

One bite of Arnold’s fried chicken and the answer becomes obvious.

The food here is so good, I’d travel from anywhere, even across country, just to get a whiff of the collard greens. Come to think of it, I DID travel across country today. So the sketchy drive from Music Row is nothing for the locals.

My chosen “three”? Green beans, turnip greens and – in a nod to the fall season – stewed apples.

The beans and greens were chock full of earthy flavor. You know from the first bite, these vegetables have never darkened the inside of an aluminum can. The fact that they weren’t loaded with spices or pig parts made them even more impressive. These vegetables were so good, they stood on their own – nothing but slow cooked goodness.

The stewed apples were excellent also. Unlike the soft apple mush you get at some Southern restaurants, these apples still retained their crisp skin and tart bite even under their sweet syrupy nectar.

I also liked the corn bread variety served up by Arnold’s. As something of a corn bread connoisseur, I consider Arnold’s to be among the best.

Both kinds.

On a small side dish, you get one traditional corn muffin and a small pancake-looking circle of corn bread known in these parts as a “flap jack.” If you are lucky enough to grab them fresh out of the kitchen, they might still retain enough warmth to melt your pat of butter.

The sweetness of the corn bread is a perfect compliment to the earthy flavors of the green beans and turnip greens.

Corn bread. Vegetables. Apples. What about the meat?

Okay, okay, I’m getting to that.

This is the best fried chicken I’ve ever had in my life!

There. I said it.

That statement might cause some issues at home, but it just can’t be denied.

My fried chicken thigh was the moistest, most tender, juicy and flavorful piece of poultry I’ve ever bit into to.

But best of all was the crust. Crunchy, packed with powerful seasonings in every nook and cranny, the crust was a party in every bite. I couldn’t stop eating it – even the crust on the gristle and bones.

The texture was perfect – not dry, not greasy – and the crust didn’t all come sliding off the meat on the first bite like some lesser elevated fried poultry.

This was fried chicken nirvana.

After that meal, you could understand how the pie might be a bit anti-climactic.

But not at Arnold’s.

My chocolate meringue certainly didn’t look like much. It wasn’t going to win any Davidson County Fair beauty contests. The meringue was sort of shriveled up, teetering to the side like it would slide right off into oblivion the moment I touched it with my fork.

But looks can be deceiving.

The chocolate was light but packed an explosion of sweetness. You can not just taste the sugar. You can feel it on your tongue.

Powerful goodness.

And a great way to cap one of the best lunches to be had in all of America.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!