Leave As Friends
Trip Start Mar 01, 2012
134Trip End Mar 31, 2014
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The hostess told me I’d wait at least an hour and a half as she handed me the buzzer. “The device is active all over the property,” she advised. “Use your wait time to shop our other stores.” I sat on a bench near the door for a while, chatting with two well-behaved kids dressed in their Sunday finest. “Are you a granny?” the little boy with the bow-tie asked. I bragged that indeed I was; he wrinkled up a dimple face and leaned against me for a hug. Sister leaned against me then; she was in need of a granny hug too; their mother said they’d been waiting two hours for a table. They were regulars; we talked about the Loveless then. “It goes back to 1951,” the mother said, and pointed to a Loveless catalogue with an appealing pan of biscuits pictured on the front. Lon and Annie Loveless opened a little eatery beside the Loveless Motel, I read. Annie knew how to make biscuits and like every southern lady of the time, she made “preserves” as the summer’s bounty of fruit came in. Her biscuits and jams were a hit right away; eventually people who weren’t staying at the motel began to stop in at the Café. The rest is history; stories told in Southern Living and Bon Appetit; their biscuit-making skills invited to the Today Show, the Food Network, Paula Deen’s.
After the little family was called to their table, I decided to wander the property. In Hams and Jams I could have bought, well, you know what. In Lil’ Biscuits I could have bought clothes and gifts for kids. But I was ravenously hungry by then, so back to the Café. “How much longer?” I asked the hostess, sure my buzzer had failed and at least two hours had gone by. “You’ve only been here thirty minutes,” she said. “It’s a long wait yet. How about takeout?” Good idea; I could eat at the picnic tables outside as so many were doing. I ordered the biscuit sampler: one steak, one ham, one chicken, and one barbecue. By darn, I was determined to have Loveless scratch biscuits today.
Back on the porch waiting for my order, I met Betty and Lloyd. They were bikers (the motorized kind) out for a spring-day ride. We soon discovered we had a lot in common; Lloyd drove a long-haul truck so knew the roads all across the USA; we compared notes on the evils of tailgating. “It takes me at least 300 yards to come to a safe stop at 60 mph,” he told me, in answer to my question. Betty loved my story of the Journey; “But I’m not much for planning,” she said. “I travel at the drop of a hat.” She told about her train rides to Chicago, and New Orleans, and Seattle. “Wherever I go, I want to stay a little longer,” she laughed. “I’m always surprised at what I find!” They called my name; my biscuits were finally ready. And Willard was right; they were the best scratch biscuits I’ve ever eaten. But it’s not the biscuits I’ll remember about the Loveless, it’s the feeling of the place. And that, I suspect, is why most people come. That’s the thing about “eating” in the south. Food is merely an excuse for getting together. And if the food happens to be great, well that’s a bonus! I have two more restaurant stories for you that prove the point.
Last week Ellendale’s was recommended to me as a place near my hotel that serves outstanding food. Located off Old Elm Hill Road in a restored farmhouse, it aims for elegance; a roomy front porch and gazebo; linen tablecloths; artful décor. The menu was interesting; Asiago Crusted Calamari and a cold shrimp platter with fresh garden vegetables were offered under the Appetizer heading; entrees included Prime Rib, New Zealand Lampchops, San Francisco Cippino, Southern Fried Tofu, Crispy Fried Rabbit paired with ginger mashed sweet potatoes, Hickory Smoked Salmon served with lemon and mint Israeli cous-cous and a chimichurri sauce paired with roasted garlic baby carrots. The food was fabulous, beautifully presented and flavorful beyond measure. Yet what I’ll remember most was Julie Buhler, and the atmosphere of the place. Julie opened Ellendale’s in 1999, after a stint as Dolly Parton’s personal chef, and cooking for other stars such as Reba McIntire, Vince Gill, and Garth Brooks. Now she spends her time making her guests feel welcome, and creating original recipes from what she grows in the large organic garden beside the house. She’s an artist too, and promotes other artists in the community; she bought a car wash and converted it to an art gallery! The house reflects her artistic nature; I asked about the striking panels on the wall. “It’s my great-grandfather Douglas Ives,” she answered, pointing to a portrait hanging behind me and the basis for the panels. Julie was excited to hear about the Journey; she followed me outside to get a picture of the Scion for her Facebook page; and posed for me. “I named Ellendale’s after my great-grandmother Ellen Dale Ives,” she told me, as we walked the grounds where the wisteria is just starting to bloom.
I haven’t been to Tootsies Orchid Lounge so far this trip; although I have visited it before. It’s properly defined as a Honky Tonk Bar, located back to back with the Ryman Auditorium; its orchid-colored front faces Broadway. It continues to attract the hoping-to-be-famous, the famous, and those who want to be where the famous have been; its walls are covered with autographed photos of those who made it. But back in 1960 when Tootsie Bess bought the property, it was named simply Mom’s. Over the years Tootsie quietly fed many hungry hopefuls that hung out in this musician’s haven, and slipped ten-dollar bills into their pockets when she knew they needed a hand. And every now and then, so the story goes, Opry stars slipped into Tootsie’s cigar box, and replaced all the IOU’s with cash.
Enter as strangers, leave as friends. That’s how it goes.