I had visions of heat, acid, tongue-tickling spice and tonsil-squeezing sear. I had thoughts of Johnny Cash serenading me with soul and song, and warmth of a Nashville night cascading over my slightly perspired neckline while biting into a crispy-fried plant-based chicken sandwich that would inspire my senses to stand on edge and my eyes to widen with delight in front of the Grand Ole Opry while honky tonk bands jammed into the eve...I hoped to be transported to this place, this state of mind and being.
Alas. I was not. I must be mistaken, there must be a “Real” Nashville in New Hampshire, or Wyoming. There must be a “Real” Nashville somewhere else that I have not yet traveled to in body or in spirit, but that inspired this dinner of mine. A place where the hot sauce is neither hot nor flavorful, where slaw is a randomly tossed assortment of crunch with no regard for balance or contour, a place where fryer oil is treated with barely a passing care.
I wish not to know this place.
The Mac and cheese was a worthwhile upgrade.
The Real Nashville Hot Chicken
