AMS Is The Word

Where has the time gone? I can’t remember the last time I posted. In fact, these days, I can’t even remember the day, or the time–ever since daylight savings happened, and I started arriving at and leaving the hospital in the not-sunlight-y hours, I’ve had the hardest time remembering what day of the week it was. Hold on…I think I wrote the same phrase twice.

Altered Mental Status. AMS. Sometimes the only thing my mom and I talk about over the phone is how we’re losing our memories (I don’t tell her about the “losing my mind” part). Acute drug intoxication/withdrawal and metabolic disturbances are probably an ongoing internal process, resulting in altered mental status (manifest as my shoddy memory these days) and fluctuating consciousness (manifest as my pervasive tendency to pass out whenever the lights dim in lecture).

I went to Miro District for the first time last month for my friend’s dinner. I remember (somewhat) that it was during my 14-day OB/Gyn Hell (2-)week(s). So what happened? Well, I remember drinking a beer and getting drunk before even finishing, probably putting me at the top of the list of people high school girls ridicule. Anything else? Well, their menu is surprisingly affordable; being at the bottom of the Adelicia should be associated with exorbitant prices on ho-hum menus–at least that’s what I thought. On the contrary, the average menu item was about $15, affordable enough for me to throw down two Jacksons like a balla’ and still sleep soundly at night.  Items ordered included:

Seafood Gumbo

Braised Short Ribs

Side Salad that comes with said Short Ribs

Free Bread

The pictures, like my memory, are terrible, and the quality only reflects this AMS of mine. I even get that purple amaurosis fugax-like visual disturbance in my upper visual fields sometimes! (Just kidding! That would scare the crap out of me if that happened.) From what I do remember, though: the free bread is super awesome and muffin-top-y, the gumbo was decent, and the short ribs were a little dry because the grits managed to sponge up every drop of meat juice a few minutes into the meal (and was still dry?!). I do think, though, that the price point and the somewhat home-y food warrants another visit. Hopefully next time I’ll have a better (aka new!) camera with me that takes clearer and untainted pictures. Until next time, Adios Mutha Suckas!

Miro District

Nashville, TN

A Trip Down South. (I Mean Nolensville)

I only get the opportunity to go south to Nolensville once in a blue moon. It may only be 10 miles away, but I feel like I have to set aside 4 hours to visit. Don’t know why. Maybe because they speak a different language there. Really.

Tucker was nice enough to drive Onionhead and me to Las Americas after I convinced him that tacos and pupusas were a much better choice than Waffle House. An hour or so later, I had 3 tacos and a pupusa in my belly, along with ladles and ladles of happiness. I swear, Mexican food is like a second comfort food for me. In another life, I would’ve lived in Oaxaca, or Mexican City. In regards to the meat, I’d have to say that beef cheek is the new pork belly. Highly underrated. Even more fatty, flavorful, and “indie” if I may use that descriptor. The meat disintegrated in my mouth, floating away in a million different directions, each carrying tiny molecules of beefy, eventually converging in the oblivion of my stomach. Yeah, it’s kinda like drugs. I stayed far away from the horchata this time. Last time the amount of undissolved powder in the drink left me feeling like I was choking down a glass of metamucil, only without the added benefit of some quality bathroom time afterwards.

I’m still looking for some good quality tacos in Nashville proper. While it’s also pretty much another country, I’ve seen a string of taco trucks along Charlotte Pike. Granted I don’t get shot or robbed at night, I’d like to go on a taco truck crawl along Charlotte one night.

Las Americas

Nolensville

Nashville, TN

Bosco’s, But Really It’s About Health Care Reform

I’m not a very political person. I don’t even vote. Yet. But you know what? Former Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist told me that he didn’t either until he became a resident in surgery. So I still got time…to write about food.

I went to Bosco’s Brewery in Hillboro Village a long while ago. For some unknown reason, I like to order catfish sandwiches. Now that I think about it, though, I think it’s the confluence of being in the South, my fondness of spices and fried food, and my nostalgia for McD’s fillet-o-fishes that lead me to order catfish/fish sandwiches at many of the restaurants along 21st Ave. This one, if I remember, was pretty good. Fried and/or blackened is a pretty standard method of fish preparation in the South, and one can rarely screw that up.

As for the beer: well, beer is beer; beer is good. I don’t know how long their seasonal brews last, or if the brews I got were from their summer repertoire, but one can generally expect a good recommendation from their waitstaff.

As for health care reform, I think I’ve spent the last couple of days thinking more about the reform bill than I have about food, which is an abnormality in my daily routine. I don’t know why I worry about it though, no matter how much people (whether they be actually knowledgeable about medicine and health care, or just politicians) oppose this bill, it’s going to get passed by reconciliation in two weeks, and then I can say goodbye to a good portion of my future salary. And health care in America won’t be any better than it is now. There will just be a lot more pissed off specialists practicing then. I also don’t know why I’m airing out my frustration online. I just wish there were more doctors involved with this process like Dr. Frist. He’s the man.

Bosco’s Brewery

Hillsboro Village

Nashville, TN

This Pork Chop Is Coated In Cocaine, Not Crack

The scene was familiar: the step up at the door that I tripped over my first time; the line along the counter, stretching back to the door; plates of cornbread laid out on the counter top, and a giant garlic-stuffed hunk of beef next to the cash register, and steam trays filled to the brim with delicious. Just as luck had it, today my attending told me to go work at the Downtown Clinic this morning since he had no patients coming in to his clinic this morning. The Downtown Clinic of Nashville serves a largely homeless clientele, and offers medical, dental, and psychiatric services, among others. More importantly, the Downtown Clinic is across the street from Arnold’s. By 9am, I was already thinking about lunch–my salivary glands already began running at maximum drool.

By noontime, I was done seeing patients and ready to eat. The adrenaline began to flow through my blood as I left the clinic’s parking lot. I was as excited for lunch as a Vanderbilt med student was on his way to the Goldstrike casino in Tunica.

The line moved particularly slow as I queued up at the end. As I stood in line, I eyed the day’s specialties written in chalk. Roast chicken. BBQ pork and brisket. Roast beef. Catfish. I don’t doubt the deliciousness of said meats. It’s just that as I was deciding what to get, something on the griddle caught my eye. A woman lifted a large baking tray up and started flipping rows of large brown chunks of something. The true identity of Unknown Brown Food could not be elucidated based on sight alone, and the air was one giant scent storm composed of every buttered and fried item along the counter. I asked Counter Guy what Unknown Brown Food was. “Pork chop.”

Eff. Yeah. Give me that.

“Do you want sauce? It’s good.” Counter Guy motioned to a small batch of some creamy white sauce, flecked with green herbs. Sure, why not? I claimed some squash casserole and stewed (not fried!) okra as my sides for my meal. The meat-and-two rang up to be over $8, well over the normal price of the normal meal. Maybe it was a mistake. Or maybe the pork chop is so good–so much in demand–that they can afford to raise prices and still sell out. I didn’t care because I had my takeout box, and was on my way to my car, to drive home, and eat it at home, away from the sights and sounds of the restaurant. No need for any excess sensory stimulation. My brain’s sensory functions were going to be fully devoted to focusing on my food. Yes, I was going to use all 10% of my brain power to enjoy lunch.

Upon closer examination, I was a bit hesitant to take a picture of my food. One, my camera is shitting the bed, and can’t take a semi-proper picture without flash. Two, the pork chop was encrusted in a thin layer of brown, the ultimate enemy of any good food-blogger-picture-taker, aka food pornographer. But you know what, looks be damned (my mom says I’m pretty on the inside!)–I cut a piece and took a bite to really get to know what I ordered. The instant the crust touched my tongue its composition suddenly deteriorated due to salivary enzymes, and molecules of Unknown Brown activated receptors across the surface of my tongue, sending surges of neurotransmitters and and action potential through my cranial nerves and into my brain. I can only imagine what happened next: my pupils dilated, my breathing quickened a little, and ironically, my muscles relaxed. Pure euphoria enveloped my entire being. I was on top of the world, but at one with the world at the same time. I figured out what Unknown Brown was. It tasted like the sauce packets in beef instant ramen bags, most likely MSG, not quite beefy, but savory nevertheless. Forget about yogurts made with crack or brownies made with pot. This pork chop was encrusted in cocaine. Pure. Unadulterated. Nirvana. The sauce–well, it’s like lacing cocaine with ecstasy. I could almost feel my body temperature rise and my teeth clench as I ate more of the pork, tearing off every last fascicle of meat with my hands and teeth. For thirty minutes, I felt amazing. My stomach–tainted and worn out by weeks of nothing near delicious–was bursting with decadence. Afterwards I went into a food coma and withdrawal, made worse by the fact that I had to force myself to stay awake for 3 hours of afternoon lecture. Now thoughts of the ‘chop won’t stop running through my mind. Is this only available on Wednesdays? It may not even matter because it will be a long while before I have another opportunity to visit Arnold’s for lunch. It may actually be a good thing. I’ve seen what happens to substance abusers during my psych rotation. I don’t want to get addicted. But at least now I know that there’s something in Nashville worth flying in out of town for. I can already see myself coming back just for some ‘chop after I graduate medical school.

Arnold’s

Nashville, TN

Sportsman’s

Back in college, I watched Grey’s Anatomy and was all into it like nobody’s bisnazz. Then there was the episode where the code black was called and the bomb exploded in the hospital but no one left the hospital because only the SWAT team guy died, and no Meredith. Suspension of disbelief: SHATTERED. Nevertheless, I was still a naive teenager when I watched the show, and romanticized the life of the surgeon: performing surgery, saving lives, and then going to the local bar where all the other doctors gathered after work to down a couple beers with all my MD buddies after a hard day’s work. I believed that was the surgeon’s life. It was awesome.

Now that I’m a few weeks into my third year of medical school, living a similar life style to real doctors, I now know that my romanticized, school-boyish dream is not how real life is. Life is tough. Not just omgIhavetowork9to5MondaytoFriday tough, but OMFGWTFIhavetowork6AMto7PMsixdaysaweek tough. Plus call schedules. And I’m not even on my surgery rotation. Just how am I supposed to have the energy and money (I am paying $40k this year to work in the hospital) to knock back a couple brewskies with my residents and attendings? Not to mention time?

Revelation: real life is not like TV. Nobody finishes work at the hospital before 5pm, unless you’re post-call, in which case you will be going home to recoup your 30+hour sleep debt. Everyone else finishes after 5pm, and from what I’ve observed, goes home to their families. They don’t go to the bar after work. Scrubs and white coats don’t flood the bar for happy hour. And maybe that’s a good thing. Patients would probably shit bricks seeing their doctors chugging beers at the bar. Probably. At least that’s what all my hours in patient-centered classes in my first two year of medical school would lead me to believe.

So there is no “hospital bar” where all the doctors hang out after work. That kind of blows. But Sportsman’s is the closest thing there is to my romanticized fantasies of youth. At least that’s how my friends and I treat it. Not that we go there everyday and drink, but it’s a suitable option whenever we want to gather for an impromptu dinner with a beer or two. Since the only other patrons are…actually, I have no idea what the other patrons do–but they’re not doctors, and they’re not students. Anyway, I don’t feel like a tool when I’m there with a white coat or scrubs.

The menu itself is unapologetically mainstream: burgers, salads, chicken. They somehow have the same fried catfish dish at two different prices, too. I’ve even heard stories of failed health inspection tests. But I don’t go there for the food. You may want to decide for yourself if you want to go there food, too. However, I will still go, just because they have 2-for-1 beer specials and it’s an ideal hangout spot during 3rd year. Also, it’s the closest bar to the hospital–I’m not counting Vanderbilt’s undergrad pub because I would definitely feel like a tool going there in scrubs and all. So…yeah…Sportsman’s is “aight.”

Sportsman’s

Nashville

I’m Slacking

I’ve been to Sportsman’s more than a few times in the past couple of weeks and this is the only picture I’ve managed to take. I keep forgetting to take pictures. And it’s not because I’m drunk, either. This whole third-year-of-med-school thing is getting to me. Maybe a night in Tunica (!!!) will cheer me up. Play to win!