Southern Sol

Sure it’s McConnell’s guacamole recipe, but Eva Salinas deserves much of the credit for Franklin’s alleged finest. A petite woman—with impressive muscles in her right arm—Salinas actually makes the stuff, which, yes, is most likely the finest in Franklin, Nashville and counties beyond.

As the dedicated guacamolera on the dinner shift, Salinas has her work cut out for her, navigating a table on wheels through a snug layout of tables for 180, and grinding avocados for virtually everyone in the room. (Think about it: Who’s not going to order guacamole at a restaurant reputed to have the town’s finest?)

As fast as she worked the crowded room on a recent Saturday night, I couldn’t help but calculate how long it would take Salinas to get to us. Even if it took less than two minutes to scoop the avocado, spoon in diced tomatoes, pink onions, cilantro, serrano chiles and kosher salt, squeeze a fresh lime into the mixture and then grind it all up in a molcajete (lava stone bowl), there were still half-a-dozen tables ahead of us.

My hungry mind began to wander from the tempting menu of margaritas to the dismal science of economics and, more specifically, to the absurdity of paying $8.50 for guacamole and chips for two. But as I watched the cart—loaded with alligator-skinned fruits and other colorful ingredients—weave in and out of tables around me, I knew that I would pay even more than that for my own rustic basalt bowl filled with soft green peaks of guacamole.

How much more would I pay, I wondered. For the sake of argument, if Chef McConnell stepped onto the mezzanine overlooking the main dining room and announced that Salinas had been suddenly crippled with carpal tunnel syndrome and no longer would be able to manhandle the mortar and pestle, and that there was a limited amount of fresh guacamole to be divided among the highest bidders in the room, how high would I go? Ten bucks? Fifteen?

Then our cocktails arrived, shattering my reverie of supply and demand and turning my attention to an $11 margarita and a frozen mojito whose magical texture—somewhere between slushy ice and a cold soup of super-fine sugar—vanished upon impact, in a frosty whisper of mint and lime.

When our guacamole arrived, it was certainly worth the wait: a generous bowl piled high with sturdy mounds of fresh, chunky avo and bright with flavors of lime and salt. My only regrets were that so much of the precious concoction was lost in the porous, gritty texture of the molcajete and that I would probably lacerate my tongue if I tried to lick it. (On a subsequent visit, a couple of leaves of lettuce placed across the bottom of the bowl solved that problem.)

Like Red Pony across the road, Sol blends contemporary urban flair with sultry warmth—a fusion that mirrors the hybrid country-politan style of many of Franklin’s residents. Inside Sol, which formerly housed Sandy’s Downtown Grille, a vibrant palette of gold, yellow, red and blue sets a backdrop for murals and Latin American icons including crosses, masks, suns and the occasional small portrait of artist Frida Kahlo. Large drum lamps hang from high ceilings of beadboard painted metallic silver, shining warm, amber light onto the colorful room.

Also like its predecessor across the street, Sol reflects McConnell’s well-traveled appetite for global flavors and fresh ingredients. A native of tiny Rives, Tenn., and a graduate of the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park, N.Y., McConnell came to Nashville in 1999 and trained under chef Margot McCormack at F. Scott’s before leading that kitchen, then headed up a microbrewery in Fayetteville, Ark., before opening Red Pony last year with his wife Fran. To create a menu for Sol, McConnell called on his own travel experiences—in Mexico, as well as in upscale Mexican eateries in the U.S. He also pulled in the culinary talents of native-Mexican sous chefs Esteban Cabrera, Bernardo Ramirez and Austin Garcia, who contribute ideas from their family recipes.

While many of the items on the menu sound familiar—enchiladas, quesadillas and tamales, for example—Sol’s delivery of Mexican-inspired cuisine is far from ordinary. Among our favorite entrées was shrimp Herradura, which could be described as Mexican shrimp and grits. On a long rectangular plate, a half-dozen gently sautéed shrimp straddled a hill of fresh masa, a grit-like dish, which McConnell makes with polenta, homemade corn stock and fresh creamed corn. The result is a bed of sweet, light grain layered with textures of polenta, corn, posole (hominy), peppers and tomatoes. Topped with a light sauce of tequila and cream—just enough to hold the masa together but not enough to drown the meal—the entrée was simple, comforting and beautiful.