Amnesia is a very popular twist in soap opera story lines—Teresa has amnesia and, unable to remember that she is in love with Ethan, falls in love with Ethan’s father, etc. The first time I remember learning about amnesia was an episode of “Lois and Clark: Adventures of Superman” when I was but a child. It seems like no one in real life gets amnesia, or maybe they do and just can’t remember. Amnesia makes me wonder what other life I may possibly be forgetting to remember. And since my mom and I needed something to make us forget we were in the car for the 9-hour drive from Virginia to Nashville, we bought “Remember Me?” by Sophie Kinsella from iTunes audiobooks to listen to in the car. “Remember Me?” is about a woman who wakes up with the ‘perfect’ life, job, rich husband, and, you guessed it, amnesia.
Somewhere in the middle of Virginia, our stomachs had forgotten about breakfast, and it was lunchtime. Sadly, the gourmet restaurants in the culinary epicenter of nowhere were invisible, leaving the ever-prevalent fast food chains as our only non-options. And then we saw a sign for a Mexican food restaurant. Since we’re from Phoenix, where the bar for Mexican is set pretty high, our expectations are accordingly calibrated, but when faced with that or the ninth Cracker Barrel we’d seen that day, we chose a gamble over a sure miss.
The interior of the restaurant was bright and colorful; there was a fish tank, festive decorations, and napkin holder looked like a watermelon. The waiter brought us warm, fresh chips—already a good sign—and salsa. On the table there was a bottle of glowing green chili habanero sauce. I have nearly superhuman spice tolerance, and dumped it on a chip before realizing I’d opened the bottle. I’m drawn to naturally neon food.
What’s not a good sign, however, is an ingredient list like this:
This is a packet of powdered creamer that was in the sugar box on the table. If something ‘edible’ has a warning about an open flame, much like hair spray, spray paint, and other flammable non-ingestibles, I would want amnesia after swallowing that.
Luckily the food wasn’t combustible. Mom went for the huevos rancheros, while I went for the huevos divorcados, which means that I get two colors of salsa over my eggs instead of one.
My only gripe is that the tortillas were not homemade. I demand lard! Nonetheless, the restaurant would probably fare pretty well even in Phoenix.
And then it was back in the car, listening to the soothing British accent of the audiobook reader mixed with Cynthia’s jarring digital monotone.
At last we rolled into Nashville, and just in time for dinner. On a road trip, there’s not much to look forward to besides meals (and if you’re bored, stop at a gas station and get a snack—good for 5 to 20 minutes of mastication and entertainment!). We plopped our bags at the hotel and booked it to Cabana, a restaurant I had scoped out online. When we arrived, it seemed rather empty for 6 o’clock on a Monday night, but we excused Nasville-ites (Nashvillians? Nashvillers?) as late diners.
The restaurant looks like it could belong anywhere. The décor is on the trendier side; some private booths have curtains around them, though the curtains are sheer, which defeats entirely the purpose of a curtain.
We started with an order of sweet potato biscuits with peach preserves. I don’t think I’d ever had a biscuit before (and if I had it was before I cared). What was my life before biscuits?
I have a weakness for carbs (and food) anyway, but the buttery bready-ness with a melty edge is like a soft, hydrogenated dream. But the peach preserves were in major need of seasoning, like cinnamon or sugar or ginger or flavor, perhaps.
As an entrée I ordered roasted duck in a blackberry barbecue sauce with some shredded peppers and potatoes over a sweet potato hash. It is my theory that duck is king of meats—fatty, tender, and flavorful. It never lets me down.
Since I zeroed in on it while looking at the online menu, I ordered the carrot cake for dessert. It had been a long, hard day of sitting, okay? Plus, I have rather a weak spot for carrot cake. And cake. And dessert in general. But especially carrot cake.
It should have been listed as ‘Hunk-a Carrot Cake Slab’ on the menu, because this thing was a behemoth. Three thick (if a little dry) layers of cake with lots of sweet cream cheese frosting garnished with a strawberry and crème fraiche hit the spot. I didn’t have to work hard to convince Mom to eat half of it with me. And thank god she did, otherwise I would have eaten it all myself.
Dessert affects me like an amnesiac—the mere suggestion of something sweet makes me forget that I just ate an entire meal, and even if I’m stuffed, I’m ready for dessert. I have often referred to this as my ‘second stomach,’ ‘dessert stomach,’ or, in numerous acute and specific cases, my 冰淇淋肚子—my ‘ice cream stomach.’
As we left the restaurant, we realized that it had been so empty because we had changed time zones, and when we thought it was 6, it was actually 5. Oh. But that gave us an extra hour to use the treadmills at the hotel to pretend that we could burn off dessert, giving us permission to have food amnesia the next day and eat all over again.
Cabana
1910 Belcourt Ave
Nashville, TN 37212
(615) 577-2262
www.cabananashville.com
