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

Arnold’s Country Kitchen is Old School

I actually have no idea how long Arnold’s has been around. I do know that it took me almost two years after moving to Nashville to try the food, even though this place was one of the first places I was suggested to try. From the looks of it, the squat, red, brick building has been in the same location for decades, its freshly painted exterior hiding an interior straight out of the 60’s or 70’s. If I knew pop culture I may have recognized what era the celebrities in black and white photos adorning the walls were from. Alas, I know nothing (which is also why I have very little to contribute at our weekly trivia time outings).

Back to Arnold’s: the place has something, though I can’t quite conjure up the right word. After being greeted by employees chillaxin outside on my way in, glancing around the small interior, and ordering up my (as I would later find out, face-meltingly-good) food via cafeteria-style assembly line, I don’t think “old school” is the correct adjective. What is it then? Passionate? Family-style? Comfort food? Soul? That comes close. History? Maybe it’s a combination of history and soul in such a hole in the wall that reminds me of all the other establishments John T. Edge wrote of in his book Southern Belly: The Ultimate Food Lover’s Companion to the South. Yes, this is it; this is what I love: the hole-in-the-wall that slaps you in the face with awesome food at dirt-cheap prices. It’s not in the same league as The French Laundry, not even Cheesecake Factory. No. This is a whole different beast, a concept similar to Prince’s Hot Chicken. Only locals would know this type of joint, as well as tourists who dig around the literature, because these places are written up like mad in food books, newspapers, and OMG foodblogs!

Well, as much as I’d like to ramble on and on about food and restaurant culture, I must cut this short (it’s nearing midnight, and I should be studying right now). I just want to say I like this place. I wish they were open at times other than lunch on weekdays, but I guess that’s part of their charm. The fried green tomatoes are crisp on the outside, and not so tomatoey on the inside to the point you feel like you’re eating a vegetarian version of a meat sandwich when dipping them in ketchup, if that makes sense at all (probably not). I didn’t use ketchup, by the way–they were good without it. In fact, I didn’t use condiments at all. The meatloaf was disgustingly good, for lack of better adverb. Usually the loaf is what makes the meatloaf, and the sauce is just a sideshow, but I found a new love for meatloaf sauce–this one included chunks of onions, tomatoes, and okra in it, not at all ketchupy like other meatloaf sauces. The actual loaf of meat was good as well.

Hopefully I can make time to go back. My belly demands it.

Arnold’s Country Kitchen

605 8th Ave S

Nashville, TN‎

(615) 256-4455‎

Prince’s Hot Chicken Part Deux

It’s been at least a month since Prince’s Hot Chicken last eviscerated my gastrointestinal tract. Like I said before, I knew that the chicken was good after the first bite, shortly before it scorched my insides. So to test my hypothesis, I returned to try their “mild” variety of chicken. Chris–who came along last time and instantly crapped out their “hot” variety–and his buddy Kurt were also along for the return trip.

The mild fried chicken was just as I suspected: crisp even after a 10 minute return trip, moist, and just spicy enough to give my taste buds a little tingle like it was saying “Oh, herro.” We all thoroughly enjoyed the fried chicken because it was prepared perfectly and because it didn’t demolish our guts. That is, until the next day, when I got a visit by the tabasco rim-job fairy. Oh well, at least this time I didn’t have to sprint for dear life to make it to the bathroom. I’ll refrain from writing that story for the sake of TMI (too much information).

Oh, and I’ve yet to find sides at Prince’s that I like. I got the cole slaw this time and it tasted like shredded leaves in buttermilk sauce. I don’t think the potato salad I had last time was all that great, either. If I go again, I’d probably get sides from somewhere else.

Prince Hot Chicken Shack

123 Ewing Dr

Nashville, TN‎

(615) 226-9442‎

New, Permanent Cafeteria – Vanderbilt University Hospital

This is my new home. Come say “Herro.”

I’ve already spent the last year and a half here–its old and temporary manifestations, to be precise–and have eaten approximately 200 meals. Two. Hundred. Marginal. Meals. I’ll be spending the next two and a half years eating here, too, so I better appreciate my new kitchen. I’ll be eating another couple hundred meals here in the future (Will there be no mercy on my tastebuds?). And thus, the long-awaited first impressions of NEW PERMANENT CAFETERIA! (cue trumpet fanfare)

I don’t have a picture of the actual grand opening, but this is pretty much it–although there was a giant (un-sneezeguarded) chocolate fondue fountain where everyone could get a dipped dessert; I chose not to partake because I would still like to remain free from MRSA and other nosocomial infections. My friend Luke, though, did take a dessert. He loves dessert. And, well, I guess his currently-enlarged cervical lymph nodes containing millions of viral particles reminded me that I made a good decision in skipping the fondue.

As per the actual cafeteria, it’s basically the same as it was before, except with a shiny new look and more walking room. The old cafeteria induced claustrophobia on a daily basis. Now, I don’t have to worry about going crazy from the crowds. I’ll still probably go crazy eventually, just not so soon. I won’t be smacking people with my backpack, either. I feel like a better person already.

However, despite making more walking room, the cafeteria failed to add in more stations to distribute food, so said walking room really becomes waiting-in-line room. I’m still waiting in long lines for food, and somehow, despite adding more registers, am still waiting even longer to pay. Renovation fail.

They also took away the “salad of the day” station, where Amy, the salad lady, would make awesome salads which always had tons of chicken for my naturally pseudo-Atkins-diet-craving tastes. What did they do with Amy? They replaced her with Starbucks machines. DAMN YOU STARBUCKS. They also didn’t do much to improve the other food. It still tastes the same. And in case you don’t know, same = crap. Usually I’m not this harsh (well, actually I can be haha), but I’ve had enough experience to judge the food here. Take, for instance, what I had on this particular day: tilapia with pineapple salsa, greens, and corn pudding. The fish was dry and lacked flavor. The salsa had no trace of pineapple flavoring. The corn pudding was not corny and not sweet. The greens were ok though–I do enjoy a nice batch of potlikker juice! Food at the cafeteria is usually a hit-or-miss usually. The only difference that’s occurred is that food is more expensive now because the hospital has to cover the costs of the renovation. AW CRAP. If it weren’t for the sake of sparing my brain from another hour of mind-numbing lecture, I would actually prefer to take free boxed lunches at lunch lecture. Almost.

I’ll still pay the money for food from the cafeteria. I’ve learned that lunchtime is more about socializing and *gasp* gossiping more than it is about eating. As long as my stomach stops growling at the end of the meal, I’ll be satisfied. Plus, I’m gonna be here for another couple of years, I might as well get used to it. But at least I’ll say this in closing:

New look, same taste.

Everyone can finally wear those “I survived the renovation” shirts for real now!

Hot In, Hot Out – Prince’s Hot Chicken

This isn’t a review. I can’t talk about food I haven’t really eaten. This is a story. Nay, an adventure.

Prince’s Hot Chicken is well known and revered in Nashville, and perhaps even the South and beyond. It’s the kind of cliche that food writers love to talk about: it’s a small operation running out of a whole in the wall, yet it’s well known and received numerous accolades for its chicken, and only its chicken–that’s really all they serve there. Thus, the background has been set for my hot chicken adventure.

I think this is one of the first places I heard about when I moved to Nashville, and yesterday, I finally made my way out to Prince’s wih my friend. After reading numerous reviews, I had an idea of what I was getting into. When we finally got there, it didn’t surprise me to find myself in what looked like a near-abandoned strip mall, with only a Chinese fast-food place, Prince’s, and a clothing store. Oh yeah, the entire parking lot was full–presumably all Prince’s customers. Walking in to the restaurant, the essence of fried chicken and spices infiltrated my nares and hit my olfactory nerves. I had a gut feeling this was going to be quite the experience.

We ordered fried chicken to go off of a very basic menu: quarter breast, quarter leg, half chicken, and whole chicken, in mild, medium, hot, and extra hot. I want to take this opportunity to warn everyone to stick with mild if you would like to taste the chicken. We weren’t so smart. Even with prior warnings, I wanted to feel like a chile pepper badass and ordered medium. My friend Chris just didn’t realize how hot it would be and ordered hot.

And then we waited for our chicken. For 45 minutes. Fourty five minutes. It was also dark outside. And as my friend noticed, we were the only white kids there. If this was a book about food, these would all be the makings of some damn good food.

After finally getting our food, we drove back to the comfort of a nice condominium with air conditioning, plush seats, and some Office and Entourage. I tore into the paper bag and just barely caught a glimpse of my chicken’s glistening exterior when I heard, “Dude, I think this is gonna be really hot.”

“How so?”

“I just ate a pickle, and it’s burning my mouth.”

Oh snap. My friend headed for the fridge and took out a half gallon of milk, some ketchup, and a bottle of ranch.

And that’s when the pain train came. I took a bite out of the chicken breast, along with some skin. Mmm, tasty, a little spicy. The breast meat was moist, for white meat, and the skin was crisp even after a 15 minute drive home. Oh, and the seasoning reminded me of paprika. Then I had a couple more bites. And then an inferno erupted in my mouth. Sweat started forming on my forehead. My eyes started watering. I began drowning my tastebuds in potato salad and beer, trying to refrain from also chugging milk, lest I want to puke up that combination later. In undergrad, I did lab research on the cold-menthol receptor, the receptor that activates and tells your brain when you touch something cold. Part of my research, naturally, was to know something about the receptor for heat and spicy; the same receptor is activated when something hot and/or spicy touches the tongue. It was a fact that I forgot when eating the chicken; even after the fire in my mouth died down, I ate pieces of hot meat, sans spicy skin, which reignited the heat and pain. At this point I was resorting to any way to extinguish the pain. Bread, ranch, beer (I was out of potato salad by this time). Chris was doing even worse with his hot chicken. I think he was actually on the verge of yakking.

It was the first time in my life where I felt like I couldn’t handle the spice. I grew up eating spicy Chinese food from the sichuan province, Mexican food with salsa rojas, korean food soaked in gochujang, spicy Thai curries, and noodle soups from all over Asia covered in Sriracha sauce and hot peppers. Yet, while eating the chicken, I could only think of the pain radiating from my throat down to my small intestines. I didn’t even think food could move that quickly through the system. But it hurt. I can’t say it was an enjoyable experience, but it was extreme, and maybe the adrenaline pumping is part of the meal. So yes, I want to try the chicken again–just in mild, though.

Oh by the way, the title “Hot In, Hot Out?” For those who don’t know, the tongue isn’t the only place where humans have the hot and spicy receptor. I’ll let you guess where the other spot is.

Prince Hot Chicken Shack

123 Ewing Dr

Nashville, TN

615) 226-9442‎