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.