Top 10 Macaroons

The Crumpet Collection records a saloonin’ and macaroonin’ mash-up in Nashville this week.

Macaroon #1: After a few hours of scootin’ around boots with the spurs on honkey-tonkin’ Broadway, teatime with raspberry and pistachio butter cream macaroons at Provence spécialité patisserie francais in Hillsboro Village (circa Vanderbilt) is the order du jour. Fo sho.

Macaroon #2: A testament to the skills of the West End’s go-to organic eatery Fido’s: even after watching a local episode of “Hillbilly Handfishin’” (in which office-bound adventure seekers voluntarily splash about in mud pits whilst seeking catfish lairs from which to wrestle the manatee-sized bottom-feeders), Fido’s catfish tacos still taste superb.

Macaroon #3: Very few places in the South will one find solar-powered trash compactors. Which is why the one on the sidewalk in downtown Franklin (just outside of Nashville proper) is practically a tourist attraction in its own right. Yes. The solar-powered trash compactor is replacing those corny penny-squashing souvenir machines; why chip in a penny when you can throw in a few bits of rubbish from the bottom of your purse and get a similar result?

Macaroon #4: Unrelated to Nashville, but after a the better part of a midnight hour was spent attempting to blow up a British air mattress, sans pump, it should be permanently documented that: 1. All caps should be screwed in, save the stopper on the underside. 2. Using a hairdryer with cool setting, inflate the mattress from the underside opening. 3. Cap and sleep. Voila.

(There will likely be a certain seven former Europe-trekkers who probably thought they would never forget this handy trick after a certain British-Italian night of similar consternation at mattress assemblage, but rest-assured, the trick is heretofore recounted. Sleep easy).

Macaroon #5: With the plethora of used bookstores frequently rounding most corners of Nashville, one would think a prestigious university had parked itself nearby or something. A favorable causal relationship soon becomes evident. High-profile universities à used bookstores with high profile signatures, such as, eh, Lee Smith and Bill Bryson. In the same case. Not two of my favorite writers or anything.

Macaroon #6: There are in fact legal mechanisms for conjuring Puff-the-Magic-Dragon up from the mists of childhood play. A trip to the Dragon Park, for instance. It’s quality therapy to spend one’s afternoon clamoring about the Gaudi-esque dragon mosaic with all the kids at “Fannie Mae Dees Park,” affectionately known as the Dragon Park. Forget McDonald’s Playland. After such a thoroughly enriching experience at age 22, what every McDonald’s really needs is a height-limitless Dragon Park.

Macaroon #7: With its trendy shops and swanky boutiques, posh downtown Franklin shows few signs of suffering through one of the Civil War’s bloodiest battles in 1864—though the chipped hat (due to misadventured canon fire) on the little dude who is the towering monument in the centre of the square (which is most accurately a roundabout) does suggest otherwise.


We are young. For Bluegrass and Country we stand.

Just record bids and Opryland.

(But we know. . .)

Nashville’s a battlefield.

Macaroon #8: Despite the seemingly random undertaking of replicating the Greek Parthenon and housing a gargantuan Florence + the Machine lookalike rendition of Athena inside (bedecked in pure gold) the sculptor, Alan LeQuire, is coincidentally the very same sculptor of the (unassuming by Athena proportions) Women’s Suffrage Memorial in Market Square (Knoxville).

Macaroon #9: To adequately describe Nashville’s southern country roots blended with organic affluence, one must look no further than the surprising frequency with which fruit tea—a refreshing mix of fruit juice, tea, and a hint of mint—is served alongside the traditional lifeblood sweet tea. It is entirely plausible to consume more than a few gallons of fruit tea, also known as tea punch, in mere days.

Macaroon #10: For the discerning out-of-towner, particularly those acquainted in any capacity with the western half of the U.S., one of the signature draws of Nashville will inevitably be the Jack-in-the-Box fast food chain. Nashville is officially the closest franchise for fans from Atlanta to Knoxville who may be on pilgrimage for the 2 for 99-cent delicious taco deal. A ground rule for Nashville: if one sees a Jack-in-the-Box, one stops. If Jack should pop up at midnight on the way back from St. Patrick’s outings and one must order “four tacos, love” in an Irish accent through the drive-thru, so be it. The JITB code stands. Without exception.


Crump it Up List: “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy”—Big & Rich, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”—Kenny Chesney, “Love Song”—Sara Bareilles, “Hiphopopotamus”—Flight of the Conchords ft. Rhymenocerus, and “E.T.”—Katy Perry ft. Kanye.

Most Wanted List: Super Pollo (an apparently infamous chicken eatery, which, we were devastated to never have found. Sadly, it is likely under new management and no longer flies the flag of. . .the Super Pollo).


Acknowledgments:

The Crumpet Collection : Nashville Edition is brought to you in part by:

Semanticz and her mad navigational, tour guiding, eatery-picking, banana-waffle-making skillz, Mr. & Mrs. Holt and their magnanimous hospitality including lavish dinners and most entertaining TV programming, Ommie for her exciting lacy thong travel stores from the 70s (and her almond brownies), the kindred spirit at the Goodlettesville Jack-in-the-Box who kindly took our photo with Jack, the quizzical Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru worker who deciphered our Irish-accented taco order, the patient wine store attendant who humored us on our Louisiana-inspired (though unsuccessful) quest for Shaide, Brandon from EyeMaster’s whose jovial over-the-counter flattery will live in infamy, “Carlton” the Demos server who delivered when it came to the soup coming with the salad, St. Patrick for a good excuse to down a Guinness, the Mercantile of Franklin for an idyllic St. Pat’s evening, and Maggie & Ringo for weenie-lickin’ snugglin’.



Thank you all for your contributions to cultural edification.



Peace out Brussels sprouts. Yo.

Top 10 Beignets

The Crumpet Collection goes carnivalesque with a visit to New Orleans for Mardi Gras; it’s no contest as to what delicacy is on par with the crumpet for communicating signature tidbits of local lore—the beignet.

Beignet #1: A hint the wait staff at historic 24/7 Café Du Monde Coffee Stand withhold upon serving one’s powdered sugar with a side of fried dough, known as the ‘beignet’—do not exhale whilst consuming.

Beignet #2: McDonald’s establishments near parade routes should offer a combo #1 meal around Mardi Gras time to include chicken nuggets, fries, and substitute toilet use for the fountain drink. Although, it’s hard to compete with daiquiri vendors offering similar combo deals near the Portas.

Beignet #3: It’s about time someone demystified the bead-earning experience and point out that there is, in fact, a perfectly classy method for beadin’ up. The secrets: game face, visibility, direct eye contact with a thrower, verbal cajoling and flattery helps, but spastically waving and jumpin’ on it generally are just as effective. However, be advised that one could be breakin’ it down to one of the marching bands doin’ the epileptic Mardi Gras innocently unawares to the passing double decker float, and such inattention may result in beads projectiled at high velocities, potentially causing cerebral damage. Another caution, old ladies can and will try to steal the beads off yo back.

Beignet #4: In Louisiana, medians—yes, between roadways—are known as “neutra-grounds.” Not to be confused with “no man’s lands,” “underground Neutria-rats,” nor “Neutri-grain rats.” A nutria-rat is, from what I ascertain, a wetland woodchuck, beaver, squirrel, amphibious mammal, groundhog substitute, though the nutria rat has no affiliation with the best parade vantage point—the neutra-ground. Despite my best efforts, no doubt I will still stand to be corrected.

Beignet #5: Levy. Is NOT a concrete interstate median blockade. Quite green, actually. Surprisingly natural and organic, if you will. Kind of like (or, unlike) advertisements for “organic window tinting.”

Beignet #6: When ordering a “muffaleta,” despite what one imagines to be a grand muffin stuffed with bruschetta, the resulting “sandwich” stuffed with pastrami, salami, and ham deftly puts imagination to shame.

Beignet #7: It may be Mardi Gras on the streetz, but the St. Louis Cathedral of New Orleans, boasting ‘oldest cathedral in the nation status’ dating back to 1793, is zero tolerance for beverages during Mass. Exposing that water bottle will get you an emphatic reverberating “NOoOOooOOOoooOOOoooO,” and you WILL be escorted out.

Beignet #8: The Two Cardinal Rules of Mardi Gras: 1) Use plastic cups. 2) Don’t talk back to the law enforcement. Though I’m not sure the latter applies so seamlessly for the hulking Ringwraith-like equine steeds the law enforcement rides upon.

Beignet #9: New Orleans. Pronounced New Orl-ens. Not leeeeans. And, heavens no, not the ghastly N’awlins.

Beignet #10: For the undiscerning and musically illiterate (I am brave enough to own this), ska music—a mixture of calypso, jazz, and R&B—goes shamefully unappreciated as dance music. Or at least, it goes unappreciated as dance music in the way it is intended to be appreciated. Reader, in your travels, if you should stumble upon a circumspect “dance” loosely known as “The Cassie” characterized by a bizarre amalgamation of window polishing, sandwich-making, tray-handling, nebulizing, and T-rexing, know that comes fresh from NOLA right out of a new dance genre known as ska-dapted.

Crump-It-Up List : “Tipitina,” “Mardi Gras”—Professor Longhair, “Annie (Don’t Wear No Panties)”—Erykah Badu, “No Hands”—Waka Flocka, “F---- You”—Cee Lo Green, “Right Above It”—Lil Wayne & Drake, to name only a few.

Most Wanted List: Rubber Ducky beads. But no sweat. The game’s afoot next time.

AckNOLAdgements:
The Crumpet Collection Krewe de Knox Edition brought to you by:
Mr. and Mrs. Smith who fueled the transport, T-Matt—master of the Taurus—who maneuvered a ballin’ 10-hour roadtrip there and back again, the monsooning rain which resulted in a historic double-feature-parade and historic Mardi Gras experience, Mr. Gassan whose gumbo culinary skillz belie comparison, Ms. V. Gassan and her spacious room, Ms. Bertha Gassan and her wheelin’ rollouts, a certain Aunt Sally who made parking expertly feasible, Mr. Gaston—driver, beat-dropper, navigator, tour guide, and cosmopolitan-maker extraordinaire, the enchanted Bird Mask and the vendor who sold it at a reasonable price, the owner of Jazz Daiquiri and Lounge who may have opened three hours ahead of schedule to accommodate our morning daiquiri run, Cassie—inspiration for many a dance routine, Ms. Chole—fearless naviGator of the 11-person hand grenade pilgrimage through swamped Bourbon Street, the masked floatsman and his bestowal of prized Fleur-de-Lis beads, and finally, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons for refreshing Co-Colas circa Kewanee, Mississippi. Thank you all for contributions to supporting cultural edification.



Peace out, Brussels sprouts.

Currently pre-heating the oven for Crumpets from the Nash. Stay steepin.'