Date Night: Bower Nails, Pastis and Culture Club

Date Night is a multipart road map for everyone who wants a nice evening out, but has no time to plan it. It’s for people who want to do more than just go to one restaurant and call it a night. It’s for overwhelmed parents who don’t get out often; for friends who visit the same three restaurants because they’re too afraid to try someplace new; and for busy folks who keep forgetting all the places they’ve driven past, heard about, seen on social and said, “Let’s remember that place next time we go out.”

Almost every summer for the past two-plus decades, my extended family has made the all-day drive to the Forgotten Coast of the Florida Panhandle — three cars loaded down with enough food to feed nine people three meals a day for a week because no one wants to drag their sandy ass off the beach and run to the Piggly Wiggly once we settle in.

It’s the one week of the year I fully step off the hamster wheel, shut down devices and reset, like when the dental hygienist scrapes the layers of tartar off your teeth until they’re smooth again. Yes, there is a family beach photo. Yes, there is an agreed-upon outfit color. (I’ve learned to live with it.) The purpose is to get as far away from the world as possible and be together, which is wonderful. Most of the time.

Because I thrive on alone time and space — especially from people to whom I’m related by blood and marriage — I’ve learned to stock up on both before I enter a week of full frontal family time. It’s as essential as a stack of good books and sunscreen.

Stop 1: Bower Nails

Outside on a recent summer night, Wedgewood-Houston vibrated with activity. Tourists strolled by in their brand-new boots, Hermès shopping bags swinging on their arms. A gaggle of crop-top teens, followed by one disheveled parent, dipped hot-pink spoons into fro-yo bowls. (More on that in a bit.) Cars slow-rolled by, drivers craning their necks to find a sliver of space to park amid the rampant, clanging construction. Inside Bower Nails, my feet soaked in a copper pedestal bowl while I reclined against a royal-blue lumbar pillow, a light blanket within arm’s reach should I get chilly.

Opened in June, Bower Nails exists because two women who live in We-Ho — Amanda Soeder Gleaton and Andrea Fishkin — kept running into each other and saying, We need a nail salon in the neighborhood. They said it so often they eventually asked each other, Wait, are we supposed to open a nail salon?

So they did. And it is beautiful in a leafy, modern and completely comfortable way. It’s not one of those turn-and-burn salons with rows upon rows of chairs, racks of polish choices and Jerry Springer reruns blaring from the TVs. And it’s not impossibly tiny or precious, chichi, frou-frou or any of those eye-rolly terms. And even though they offer all the things — clean polish and custom oils and scrubs from Nashville-based wellness company The Herbalist Collective — they’re not in-your-face about it. That said, the price tag reflects the affluent area: Basic adult pedi prices start at $105 to $115 with additional charges for nail art and other services. 

I spent too long looking at my polish options, trying not to pick the same bright berry color I always choose. I narrowed it down to “Pumpkin” (warm coral) and “Love in the Dunes” (grayish purple). I went with “Pumpkin,” which was not, as I feared, too UT orange. My nail tech Allison put my own shoes back on me when she was done — none of those flimsy disposable flip-flops for Bower — and I took my moisturized feet around the corner to dinner.

Stop 2: Pastis Nashville

Anyone who thinks eating alone at the bar is sad hasn’t bellied up at Pastis Nashville. One of a handful of outposts of the original NYC brasserie started by restaurateur Keith McNally in the late ’90s, it seemed a bit out of place when it opened in June 2025. But these days it feels right at home amid the high-end restaurants and retail options in every direction. 

I found a bar seat with a view of the kitchen door, ordered a glass of bubbles from a bartender with a topknot and eavesdropped on two sound engineers next to me. It’s fascinating how they obsess over sound the way writers obsess over words. Each appetizer on the menu was more decadent than the last — escargot, foie gras parfait, steak tartare and a $150 fresh seafood tower — and I settled on the squash blossoms stuffed with lump crab. There were two, and I didn’t have to share.

Then onto the moules frites, or mussels and fries, which are worth the work it takes to pry those little bivalves out of each shell so they can bob in the buttery white-wine broth with razor-thin slices of onion and garlic. Pastis serves the mussels with a fork, but I asked for a spoon because I’m mostly in it for the broth. I learned this lesson long ago over dinner with Father John Putka, the priest who married my husband Dom and me: He used shells to scoop broth into his mouth once the mussels were gone. Back then I was aghast. Now I appreciate it for the no-fucks-given move that it is. 

One of my favorite things about French food is its celebration of mayonnaise. The South may divide itself between Hellmann’s and Duke’s, but handmade always wins in my book — especially if I’m dipping fries in it. Which I did, many times, alternating between room-temp mayo and chilled ketchup, and barely made a dent in the small silver bucket they came in. It was like every time I ate one, three more replaced it.

Stop 3: Culture Club 

Despite the heat, I took a much-needed lap of Houston Street after leaving Pastis, past Every Direction Vintage, Americano Lounge and Bastion to Never Never and back on the other side of the street, past Jackalope Brewing, Aba, Present Tense and Alla Vita. It’s shocking how quickly one city street can change in a matter of months.

I expected a line outside of Culture Club, the new frozen Greek yogurt spot on Martin Street — but I didn’t expect it to move so quickly. Within minutes I’d moved past every tween and pregnant lady sitting on the banquette that runs the length of the small space, sampled a few flavors and filled my one-size-fits-all cup with a solid base of peanut butter. 

Greek yogurt has more protein than regular fro-yo and is considered healthier, which maybe doesn’t matter much when you cover it with cookie dough and dark chocolate fudge. Customers can’t add their own toppings, which was fine because I got a little overwhelmed with all the cool choices, including local collabs like strawberry jam from Nashville Jam Co., “croissant crack” from Perenn (Culture Club’s soon-to-be neighbor) and Tennessee Artisan Honey. On that note, Culture Club has the branding and feel of a national chain but is local, and their second location opened inside Chief’s on Broadway this month. 

From my seat by the door, I watched people walk in and either pretend not to check themselves out in the mirrored wall behind me or very obviously check themselves out, fluffing bangs, sucking in their nonexistent guts. The crowd included scruffy guys in pajamas, girls carrying tiny dogs, dates, dads and everyone else who consumed Culture Club content on the socials and came to check it out. And the glory of it all was that none of them are related to me.