The imminent closing of Houston’s has been great for business. So observed Jack Mahoney—the very temporary general manager of the Nashville dining institution on West End Avenue—without a trace of irony on the restaurant’s very last Sunday afternoon in business. A typical Houston’s crowd—which is to say, conservatively dressed people of all ages, both genders and multiple ethnicities—filled the dining room, while the successors to their tables waited patiently and cheerfully in the small foyer or on the benches outside. The imminent closing of Houston’s has been great for business. So observed Jack Mahoney—the very temporary general manager of the Nashville dining institution on West End Avenue—without a trace of irony on the restaurant’s very last Sunday afternoon in business. A typical Houston’s crowd—which is to say, conservatively dressed people of all ages, both genders and multiple ethnicities—filled the dining room, while the successors to their tables waited patiently and cheerfully in the small foyer or on the benches outside. In 27 years, since George Biehl and some partners opened Nashville’s first fern bar in a former Western Auto building, business has always been good. But big business has proven to be bad news for Houston’s. The development boom on West End Avenue is bulldozing tenured businesses like Houston’s in favor of spankin’-new suburban sprawls like the next-door Walgreen’s (which famously razed the Jacksonian) or the soon-to-be-sizzlin’ Stoney River Steakhouse across the street. The soon-to-come meatery has already flattened the Mapco and will next do the same to the shuttered Rio Bravo. But such unpleasantries were not on the menu this particular Sunday afternoon. Nor have they ever been. At “The Original”—as it states proudly but not boastfully in gold letters stenciled on one of the front windows—good manners are as standard as the crisp white shirts, neck ties and pressed pants worn by the servers. Just check the menu: “No cell phones in the dining room” it says in small but bold type. Just below that, a suggestion: “Please notify of us any food allergies.” Under the beer and wine list, this thoughtful policy, nicely stated: “NO PIPES OR CIGARS PLEASE.” And under that, a reassurance: “We would like to see that you make it home safely. If you do not have a designated driver, please allow us to call you a cab.” But such unpleasantries were not on the menu this particular Sunday afternoon. Nor have they ever been. At “The Original”—as it states proudly but not boastfully in gold letters stenciled on one of the front windows—good manners are as standard as the crisp white shirts, neck ties and pressed pants worn by the servers. Just check the menu: “No cell phones in the dining room” it says in small but bold type. Just below that, a suggestion: “Please notify of us any food allergies.” Under the beer and wine list, this thoughtful policy, nicely stated: “NO PIPES OR CIGARS PLEASE.” And under that, a reassurance: “We would like to see that you make it home safely. If you do not have a designated driver, please allow us to call you a cab.” From the very start, employees set the bar high for customer service. “One night one of our regular customers had way too much to drink,” remembers Jan Herbert, who grew up here in Nashville. “So, we took him out to eat to try to sober him, but it didn’t work. The guy lived in Columbia and it was late, so one of the servers took him to his house, made up the sofa, let him sleep it off there and took him back to his car in the morning.” When word got out that the restaurant was being closed, the news hit many in town like a death in the family. None took it as personally as the people who spent some part of their post-adolescence/pre-adulthood seating customers, mixing drinks and toting trays within the comfort zone of this homegrown restaurant. So a wake was planned. As cars whizzed obliviously by this corner of West End Avenue, and the sun shone through the windows, the last bartenders who will ever mix drinks behind the original bar, and the last servers who will ever tote a tray, went about their business, pouring a glass of Chardonnay, and bringing The Original Club Sandwich, the Famous French Dip Au Jus, the Chicago Style Spinach Dip and The Club Salad one last Sunday to a third generation of Houston’s diners. In front of every child, it seemed there was a plate of steaming, hand-battered deep-fried chicken fingers with honey-mustard dip. They’re not on the menu anymore, but all you have to do is ask and the kitchen is happy to cook some up. When word got out that the restaurant was being closed, the news hit many in town like a death in the family. None took it as personally as the people who spent some part of their post-adolescence/pre-adulthood seating customers, mixing drinks and toting trays within the comfort zone of this homegrown restaurant. So a wake was planned. As cars whizzed obliviously by this corner of West End Avenue, and the sun shone through the windows, the last bartenders who will ever mix drinks behind the original bar, and the last servers who will ever tote a tray, went about their business, pouring a glass of Chardonnay, and bringing The Original Club Sandwich, the Famous French Dip Au Jus, the Chicago Style Spinach Dip and The Club Salad one last Sunday to a third generation of Houston’s diners. In front of every child, it seemed there was a plate of steaming, hand-battered deep-fried chicken fingers with honey-mustard dip. They’re not on the menu anymore, but all you have to do is ask and the kitchen is happy to cook some up. Meanwhile, about 100 members of a unique Nashville fraternity gathered in the bar to swap stories and lift a glass to the passing of yet another local treasure. Jan Herbert and Tom Rainey were the first to arrive that day, which was only right since they were also two of the first three bartenders when Houston’s opened in 1977. “There was no place else like it back then,” says Rainey. They both were working at Smuggler’s Inn on Murfreesboro Road. One of their customers, Vic Branstetter, recruited them to the place he managed down the road, a Steak & Ale. (The name on the sign was actually The Jolly Ox, because it was still illegal after Nashville got liquor by the drink to have reference to booze in a place that served it.) That’s where they met George Biehl, who was regional manger of the chain. When he crossed town to open Houston’s, Herbert and Rainey went along for the ride. “We went to work there a few weeks before it actually opened, getting everything ready,” says Rainey. “We created the Bloody Mary recipe, the Sangria, and made up the Tennessee Trash. The Tennessee Trash was a little bit of everything in a Mason jar, with some orange juice to make it drinkable. It was potent. Tish Hooker used to love them; she had one every time she came in, but only one.” “We went to work there a few weeks before it actually opened, getting everything ready,” says Rainey. “We created the Bloody Mary recipe, the Sangria, and made up the Tennessee Trash. The Tennessee Trash was a little bit of everything in a Mason jar, with some orange juice to make it drinkable. It was potent. Tish Hooker used to love them; she had one every time she came in, but only one.” The cheese toast was another Houston’s innovation. “It was just French bread, split and spread with butter, a couple of cheeses, and toasted in the oven. People went crazy for it. Back then, you could have as much as you wanted. Now someone told me it costs $5 for a basket. They sure must be proud of it.” Herbert laughs as she sets up five large poster boards to which she has taped a gallery of photographs that chronicle those days when they all lived for the moment and the future gleamed. The past is captured in these faded color snapshots: softball games, picnics, field trips, weddings—and above all, parties, parties, parties. “Any excuse for a party back then,” Herbert remembers. “We worked together, we lived together, we partied together. It wasn’t just the employees. It was boyfriends and girlfriends, the police who did security for the parking lot, and customers. Look, here’s a picture of Gerry House. He never worked at Houston’s, but he came to all our parties. It was all so much fun. It seemed like it would never end.” All are unmistakably aged. And yet none that are gathered comfortably here, on this stepping stone from their youth, seem to regret the years gone by. Having moved on, they take one last fond look back. Those were the days, weren’t they? Time indeed stands still on these boards, sweet and poignant portraits of innocent days and nights lived to the fullest. Today, they inspire laughs and a few tears from their subjects. There’s Mary Benagh, one of the group’s most exuberant party girls, who grew up to design a successful line of casual clothing made with potato stamps. She is flying out the next day to Boston to see the Rolling Stones at Fenway Park; some things never change. Everyone says Betsy Brittain—who as Betsy Settle worked there one year to finance a trip to Europe, and another while she was at O’More College of Design—hasn’t changed a bit. The interior designer, mother of four, and 2005 Swan Ball Co-Chair graciously accepts the compliment, but she knows better. Stephanie Smith Brooks still has that head of gorgeous red hair and dazzling smile that caught the eye of Ronnie Brooks, when he was a member of The Piggies, one of Nashville’s most popular party bands of the early ‘80s. There’s a Christmas card of a smiling Doug and Leslie and their two Golden Retrievers; someone wonders who got the two dogs when the couple divorced a few years later. But Stan Barron and Doris Fitzgerald—who have been together since the night the Metro vice squad officer arrested the Houston’s waitress at Top of the Block, an after-hours club on Elliston Place where the crew used to drink after closing—arrive holding hands. Joe Ledbetter of 2005 is a mirror image of Joe Ledbetter circa 1977, at least in nearly identical khaki pants and polo shirt. One of the original owners, he set the dress code of preppy style for all the employees. All are unmistakably aged. And yet none that are gathered comfortably here, on this stepping stone from their youth, seem to regret the years gone by. Having moved on, they take one last fond look back. Those were the days, weren’t they? Houston’s Restaurant at 3000 West End Avenue closes on Saturday night, August 27th. Most of the furnishings were pre-sold to other restaurants; management had to decline requests from customers for a piece of the bar. Plans for the site have not been announced by property owner Ed Stolman, who lives in California. There are nearly 50 other stores in the chain across the country, about 35 with the Houston’s name. But only one could claim The Original.
