GOIN’ HUNGRY IN NASHVILLE

A trip to this lovely city in central Tennessee seemed like a good chance to sample some Southern cooking. But my various guidebooks weren’t much help. Although there were a number of interesting-sounding restaurants in Memphis, the only listing for Nashville was the cafe at the Loveless Motel, about 15 miles west of Nashville.

The Loveless is famous for its fried chicken and country ham, one guidebook said.

Perfect.

But the Loveless was closed Monday, the day I arrived, so a spontaneous survey of strangers seemed in order.

The answers were discouraging.

“You want ribs?” several people asked. “Try Tony Roma’s.”

Tony Roma’s? That’s a chain, with several outlets in Los Angeles--not bad ribs by uptown standards, but not wonderful ribs, not real, down-home ribs and definitely not what I had in mind.

“Try the Sylvan Park,” a couple of people said.

OK. But it seemed wise to call first for directions.

“How late do you serve dinner?”

“7:30.”

It was already 7:10. Scratch the Sylvan Park.

“Try the West End Cooker,” a clerk at the hotel suggested.

Back into the telephone booth.

“How late do you serve dinner?”

“11 p.m.”

“Do you have good fried chicken?”

“You bet. And lots of other Southern specialties too.”

Eureka.

I hotfooted it down to the West End Cooker, with visions of warm corn bread and country ham and home-made peach pie dancing in my eyes.

Big mistake.

The Cooker looked, sounded and smelled like one of those plastic, noisy, trendy, eclectic (i.e., “We do everything but nothing well”) restaurants you find these days in virtually every city in America.

I looked at the daily specials on the blackboard menu. Chicken Parmesan. Sole with lime butter.

I looked at the regular menu. Smothered chicken--but not smothered with gravy and onions as any self-respecting Southern restaurant would serve it; no, the Cooker smothered its chicken with “thinly sliced ham and mozzarella cheese.”

I walked out.

By now it was 8:30. Disgruntled, I went to Tony Roma’s.

The next day, I asked a few more people where I should eat. The consensus was “Have lunch at Spat’s.”

One foot in the door and it was clear this was another Cooker--but with a menu suffering from a terminal case of the cutes. Sandwiches were named after Greta Garbo and Mae West. Desserts were named “Snow Bear” and “Melt Down.” Hamburgers were named “Houdini,’ “Speedy Gonzales,” “G-Man” and “Stutz Bearcat.”

Chicken? Well, Spats had eight kinds of chicken--including Teriyaki chicken, “sweet-and-sour stir fry,” the “Gangster” (with melted Swiss and Parmesan cheeses) and “Capone” (with melted Swiss cheese and sauteed mushrooms). But no fried chicken.

The combination plate--ribs, pork chop and chicken-- seemed the only reasonable choice.

Not so reasonable.

That night--by now desperate--I drove to the Loveless Motel, out in the middle of nowhere on Highway 100. The setting, at least, was perfect. Small. Quiet. Checked tablecloths. Young southern ladies serving. No bar. No daily specials. No mozzarella or parmesan cheese or dishes named after movie stars or cartoon characters.

Unable to decide between the fried chicken and the country ham, I ordered both. The chicken was disappointing. Not bad, just not great. But the ham was delicious. The home-made biscuits were even better. The home-made peach and blackberry preserves were sensational. In fact, when I asked what was available for dessert, the waitress just smiled and said:

“I can take your biscuits back and get you some hot ones and some more preserves.”

Perfect.