It’s been an exciting few years for Nashville, what with our new buds the Titans, the Predators, and the Dells hanging their shingles in our sleepy little hollow (in exchange for some eye-opening tax breaks here and there). My lord, the Crier wonders, could it be that we, the Biggest Small Town in the South, have finally made the leap to Smallest Big City? The recent news that Nashville soon will be home to our very own Palm Restaurant, one of New York City’s most legendary dining institutions, erased any lingering doubts in the Crier’s skeptical mind that we have arrived!
Since 1926, the Palm on Second Avenue has sated the seemingly insatiable appetites of Manhattan’s Masters of the Universe with colossal steaks, gargantuan lobsters, mammoth chops, and overflowing platters of home fries. The average ticket price for such consuming glory, not including the de rigueur power martini, is about 50 bucks a head, putting it right up there with Morton’s and Ruth’s Chris as expense-account-required.
Fortuitously, the 20th Palm of the carnivorous chain will be in the Hilton Suites Hotel in downtown’s SoBro district, a mere Zamboni ride from the GEC, a several-hundred-yard run from the Delph, and just a tumble down the Hill from the Capitol and its august legislative bodies.
There will be plenty of room to spare in this ballroom of tasty pleasures. But space on the wallsmore than steak on the plateis what those in the know truly crave, and that is limited so far to just 215 of Nashville’s heaviest hitters and most-oft-sung names, already 15 more than the 200 originally planned to be in place for the grand opening gala in mid-December.
Like the 19 other Palms, the decorating scheme of Nashville’s Palm primarily calls for framed caricatures to be hung on the wallsflattering ones, the Crier presumesof our town’s most famous and infamous faces. Since the announcement of the steakhouse’s impending arrival back in February, furious lobbying has been under way to be placed on the restaurant’s Walls of Fame. The Crier hasn’t seen such breathless pandering, enthusiastic booty-kissing, blatant misrepresentation, shameless self-promotion, and flagrant suck-uppery since becoming a voting member of the CMA.
The criteria to receive the coveted nod to notoriety seem nearly as nebulous as that for the hillbilly obelisk, though the Crier suspects that the usual suspects were gimmes. Actor/politician/swinging bachelor Fred Thompson will rub senatorial shoulders with surgeon/politician/ devoted husband Billy Frist. The former Hizzoner is gone from office, but not forgotten from the wall, nor is the current mayor overlooked. Titans coach Jeff Fisher and his signature moustache are in the game plan, no doubt with his well-coiffed boss Bud, and Eddie Gorgeous Georgeous. Media moguls like the Scene’s own boy toys Albie and Bruce get their share of ink, along with Gannett’s most eminent emeritus John Seigenthaler. Nashville’s most public displayers of affectionVince and Amy and Tim and Faithmade it, though not as a foursome. Garth is in, but the soon-to-be-former Mrs. Brooks got the boot.
The answers to 215 of the burning questions are in the mail, along with requests for 8x10 glossies. Letters to the chosen few went out last week. But placement could be problematic. The Crier doubts the newly configured Gills will be breaking bread anywhere near the newly configured Chapmans. And don’t look for Tish to be within a baton’s throw of Kenny. Location, location, location. If you haven’t received a letter by now, you didn’t make the cut. To paraphrase an old axiom, if you have to ask....
Al, don't have a cow
What’s all this moo-ha-ha? While wandering the Web last week, the Crier came across a Drudge Report dispatch that dredges up an old memo indicating that Candidate Gore’s well-publicized tendency to, well, lie like a rug is not just a recent brainstorm. Mr. Earth Tones stepped in the same sort of piles during the 1988 presidential race.
The memo from Gore’s then-deputy press secretary Mike Kopp warned that members of the national and regional press were raising troubling questions about some of Gore’s public statements. The prophetic Kopp told his boss that his “press image may continue to suffer if you continue to go out on the limb with remarks that may be impossible to back up.” (The Crier also noticed that the Kopper offered similar, even sharper criticisms about his former cash cow on last week’s PBS Frontline. The Crier, of course, was not home at this prime-time social hour, but rather taped the report.)
Anyway, Kopp pointed out that Al stepped into deep doodoo at the Iowa State Fair in 1987. While prepping for the Iowa Caucuses, Gore dropped into the cattle barn to check on the status of a Gore Farms cow. Unfortunately, the Gore bovine didn’t even place, but a nearby one was sporting a snappy blue ribbon. The Kopp memo refers to the incident as a ribbon-switching caper, though the Nashville Banner’s political reporter at the time, Bruce Dobie, can’t remember whether Gore switched ribbons or simply posed for the irresistible photo with the winning cow. The Crier wonders if Dobie, a presumed Democrat but rapidly morphing biz-pig, has conveniently forgotten the facts of the matter. In the immortal words of former Mayor Bill “Seven-Hour” Boner, we say, “Tell the truth, Bruce!”
To whispah in the Crier’s ear, e-mail email@example.com.
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