Sex, Mud and Rock 'n' Roll

Miss Daisy King was annoyed. In Nashville, a restaurant that served only foods in the Bible should be going gangbusters. But that was not the case. The tables at her "What Would Jesus Eat?" Cafe were sitting empty in the space that once housed Planet Hollywood. The scattered, smothered and covered manna was going uneaten. The all-you-can-eat loaves and fishes were wilting on the steam table. Even the "Water Into Wine Happy Hour" was dead. She toyed with one of the menus and absently flicked the bobblehead Lot's Wife saltshaker.

As Miss Daisy studied herself in the stained-glass mirror behind the bar, she had a pretty good idea who deserved the blame: Robert Atkins. This Atkins low-carb craze was killing her. Bible foods meant lots of bread, which in turn meant lots of carbs. Lots of wine, too, but even that worked against her. If not for those merlot-loving Episcopalians, her WWJE Cafe bar would have shut down before Easter.

That bitch Kay West had been no help. The Scene restaurant critic probably thought she was being cute when she wrote that "Miss Daisy seems intent on serving us all our last supper." She pronounced the food "not fit for a camel," reserving special scorn for the myrrh-burger. So what if it reeked faintly of musk? Miss Daisy had retaliated the only way she could. She had the Scene rack hurled into a landfill, although the Scene's circulation-department goons quickly chained another to a nearby telephone pole.

As she sat in the empty dining room working that day's Jumble, Miss Daisy was hit with a revelation. The sad truth was, there wasn't any passage in the Bible where anyone, Pharisee or publican, bellied up to the table for a thick, juicy, Atkins-approved steak. And her one beef item on the menu, the Fatted Calf, wasn't selling. Who wanted to see the word "fatted" on a menu these days? If something didn't change soon, she would lose her shirt.

Miss Daisy King shook her fist at the gray skies over Lower Broadway. "As God is mah witness," she thundered, "I'll never serve frankincense grits again!"

Earlier that day, whispers passed through the city's corridors of power: Watauga was back in session. Watauga! The mysterious civic club had served as Nashville's shadow government in the 1950s, '60s, and '70s, its members drawn from leadership posts all over the city and sworn to silence. A contractor didn't lift a corncake at Jimmy Kelly's without Watauga's say-so. Now members had received a hurried summons to report to the Frist Center under cover of night, and to tell no one where they were going or why.

Some of the original Wataugans were there: Nelson Andrews, Ken Roberts, John Jay Hooker. But mostly the group was made up of new-breed movers and shakers. Near the hastily assembled reception table, Gordon Gee sipped his grape Faygo while Kenneth Schermerhorn, Deb Varallo and Pat Nolan picked at the Robert Orr Sysco quiches.

Standing silently nearby were the rest of the city's illuminati: Frank Sutherland, Mario Ramos, Butch Spyridon, Clyde the ticket-taker from the Green Hills theater, Larry Woods, David Swett Sr., Karlen Evins and WSMV weatherman Tim Ross. James Hefner couldn't make it, something about last-minute tickets to see the Lady Wolfpack play in Utah. But Miss Daisy King could. She packed herself a to-go container of her Roll Away the Stone Crab Soup and took a cab up Broadway.

"This gathering is light and feathery, with a hint of oak and pine," Frank Sutherland whispered to Hooker.

"Just give me a reason to sue you," Hooker responded.

Titans owner Bud Adams took the podium and the Wautaugans grew quiet.

"Thanks for coming tonight on such short notice," Adams began on an uncharacteristically gracious note. He then returned to form: "If that piss-ant mayor of yours won't take my millions to make the schools better here, maybe we can improve things another way," he said, his eyes raking the room from beneath his improbable hair.

"Now, what's the most famous work of art in the world?"

There was an awkward silence. "Michelangelo's 'David'?" somebody finally guessed. Adams grimaced. "Van Gogh's 'Starry Night'?" another brave soul said. Ventured another, timidly: " 'Musica'?"

"No, no, no," Adams said. Jesus, he'd gotten better answers out of Eddie George's agent. " 'Mona Lisa,' " he said, putting on a sly, toothy smile. "By Mr. Leonardo da Vinci. And I won't bother asking you for guesses about what the second most famous work is. It's also by da Vinci: 'The Last Supper.'

"Now what would you say if I told you that that da Vinci painted a masterpiece that has been a secret for 500 years, a secret passed down through a tight society of artists? A masterpiece that combines elements from his two most famous works?"

Adams paused for effect. "A masterpiece that it is now time to reveal to the world. A masterpiece that I and my Texas cattle compadres are willing to ship here and show at this very museum in two weeks. What I have here tonight is a pale copy of the original, but you'll get the picture." The joke went over even better than he hoped, even though no one laughed. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: 'Mona Lisa's Last Supper'!"