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

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

Montana Ted’s Wild Awesome Adventure

Comfort food is awesome. Screw fine dining. I hate hoity toity stuff. I could eat burgers for days and days in all shapes and combinations. Ted’s burgers are one of the tastier burgers I’ve stumbled upon in Nashville. I don’t know what it is. Maybe the patty, which could be more tightly packed and held together, but only because there’s so much meat juice flowing that it runs down the side of my arm and I have to suppress urges to lick the grease. George Foreman and his grill can eat it. The grease and juice make the burger tastier. In fact, it wouldn’t be comfort food if it wasn’t unhealthy. Add a slice of cheese, some mushrooms, maybe onions–even a FRIED EGG!–and look what you have: breakfast, lunch, and dinner combined into one sandwich, ideally eaten in one sitting. I didn’t order the “kitchen sink” burger, but I do give the place thumbs up for offering the fried egg topping. The fried egg needs to be accepted and embraced as a burger topping. In fact, I believe the addition of an egg to any item should automatically qualify it as a comfort food. Omelets.  Ramen. Oyakodon. All of the previously mentioned are my comfort foods, and all have eggs. But you know, I understand people have differences of opinion. Comfort foods as a concept is like philosophy: it should be up for interpretation by anybody; there shouldn’t be comfort food tyrants who dictate what is and isn’t a food of significant comfort. Or maybe I’m just thinking too much, and my ill resentment towards my college philosophy class is resurfacing. Whatever. Burgers are great!

This tomato salad wasn’t worth $4. I should’ve bought a bag of prunes instead. Or Metamucil.

I also forgot to mention that the “wild awesome adventure” part is due to the fact that they serve bison meat here–more adventurous than beef, less delicious than veal.

Ted’s Montana Grill

West End

Nashville, TN

The Hipsters: They Scare Me–Local Taco.

Deep down inside, there lies a a very intense fear of hipster. And it just happens that this fear of mine is compounded by a blind rage over and over. I do think, however, that such strong emotions juxtapose often: when I see one from a distance, I’m overcome with fear and loathing; and when I’m surrounded by them, their ever-multiplying numbers taking up my seat at the local independent coffeehouse or restaurant, I fill with disdain. Just why do I harbor such emotions towards this unstoppable and enlarging segment of the youth? And why am I venting here? The first question is easy to answer: their super skinny jeans and extra deep V necks are frightening, just like how some people get the heebie-jeebies when they see pictures of spiders, I feel the same when I see them posted all over the world-wide Internets. I’m sure that there are more logical reasons to be scared, but sometimes the most visceral emotion is the only one that should make sense. As for the second question: because I can, and I’m sure all 2 of my readers (I don’t count myself one of them) would skip my opening rants anyway.

More importantly, I speak of hipsters because they do plague restaurants and coffeehouses; they take up precious customer space (tables and sofas) while spending very little, therefore hurting the establishment and economy. And so that was my train of thought as I walked into Local Taco a couple nights ago. The neighborhood was the perfect breeding ground for hipsters: small brick-laden strip malls populated by independent laundromats, restaurants, pubs, and eco-friendly stores. UGH. I spotted the line in front of Local Taco, winding out the door. The outdoor patio was quickly filling up. And most importantly (as I have learned since kinda joining the working force) pitchers upon pitchers of margaritas were strewn on tables. I glanced over the menu. Fish tacos. Chicken tacos. Fried shrimp tacos. KOREAN BBQ TACOS.

Elvis has left the building. The shark has jumped. This was it. KOGI has officially changed the way hipsters see tacos. I knew I wasn’t going to get a real (dirty and delicious) taco. But I still got the carnitas taco, grabbing on to all that futility would offer. Each taco is $2.50. They come on factory-manufactured, grocery-aisle, unwarmed, stale tortillas. Tip: I’m sure the carnecerias on Charlotte Pike offer bags of tortillas infinitely tastier than these ones. So already, one key component of the taco (the other being the filling) was off. I ordered the whole shabam: carnitas, spicy shrimp, korean bbq, and pork bbq tacos. The pork bbq was basically a bbq pork sandwich with coleslaw in a tortilla instead of a bun. The spicy shrimp was sweet, not spicy. The korean bbq was also sweet, but not so much that desecrated the deliciousness inherent in Korean bbq (translation: it was decent). The carnitas was the white-flight version of pork: no fat, no grease, no flavor. I will be going to Nolensville when I want real tacos. However, if I wanted to sit on a patio and drink beers (not margaritas cuz their margaritas were disgusting and pricey) on a summer evening in a hipster neighborhood (which isn’t entirely bad) I would chill there. And all in all, the crowd wasn’t entirely hipster. The crowd was actually older, as in “I have a real job” older, but still cool. Anyway, I’m craving a taco right now. Filled with buccal muscle. That would be awesome.

Local Taco

Murphy Rd.

Nashville, TN