Patrick’s
1711 Division St. 742-3900
Hours: 11 a.m.-3 p.m., 5-10:30 p.m. Tues.-Thurs.; 11 a.m.-3 p.m., 5-11:30 p.m. Fri.; 5-11:30 p.m. Sat.; noon-3 p.m., 5-10 p.m. Sun. Bar open between lunch and dinner
A couple of weeks ago, due to mitigating circumstances, I reluctantly declined an invitation for a long weekend in New Orleans. While this wasn’t quite as tragic as missing the lottery jackpot by one number, I was pretty put out. As much as I love the food, the drink, the music, the food, the buildings, the streets, the food, the people-watching, the vibe and the food of New Orleans, Oktoberfest in Nashville seemed an unsatisfying substitute.
Hungry for consolation—and seriously craving fried oysters, gumbo, muffulettas and a cold Abita Turbo Dog—it seemed the perfect time to visit Patrick’s, the restaurant that had quietly snuck into the purple-painted building formerly occupied by Velvet salon on the outskirts of Music Row. My curiosity and appetite had been piqued months before by Patrick’s ad campaign, which offered a seductive come-on: “Have you had a taste of Louisiana lately?”
Sadly, local experience over the years raised the possibility that Patrick’s would prove to be more disappointment than consolation, all tease and no follow-through. The state’s cuisine is so distinct, so exalted, so tied to place, that to reproduce it elsewhere is a daunting task. It’s nearly impossible to satisfy the exacting culinary specifications of homesick Louisianans pining for po’boys.
Patrick Barber felt their pain. A drummer raised in Baton Rouge, he came to Nashville nine years ago with a band and eventually opened a studio. But a man’s got to eat. Frustrated in his quest for a bowl of good gumbo, he began pondering the notion of a restaurant, talking it over with close friend Brant Sair, whom he has known since they were in fourth grade together back home. Sair had the necessary restaurant experience, having spent several years learning the business in New Orleans before moving to California.
“I was doing fine with music, but I always kept my eyes out for a location,” says Barber. “Everybody on Music Row knew this building. When it became available, I went right over to look at it. The inside was purple and gold, LSU colors; my mom was an LSU cheerleader. There was a fleur de lis painted on the floor. I knew right there that this was the place.”
He took possession of the building in January, designing the small space to re-create what he loved most about places back home. “We just wanted it to feel like a place that had been there a long time, a sort of rootsy, funky, comfortable room, like you were going to a friend’s place.” Sair moved to Nashville, and the duo contacted another old friend from Baton Rouge, chef Michael Reinhardt, who would become the third and pivotal member of this single-minded trio of coonasses.
“All of us contributed ideas to the menu,” says Barber. “We all grew up eating this way, and everyone had pretty clear thoughts on what we wanted to serve. But the recipes are all Michael’s. Some are family recipes, some are things he picked up cooking in New Orleans, and some are his own dishes. We call it Southeast Louisiana cuisine. There’s Cajun, and there’s Creole, and there’s in-between.”
Baton Rouge, of course, is smack in between New Orleans, where Creole cooking originated, and the low-country region of Acadiana, where Cajun food rules. In Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana Kitchen, the famed chef offers this distinction about the oft-debated differences: “Both are Louisiana born, with French roots. Cajun is very old, French country cooking, a simple hearty fare.... The Acadians adapted their dishes to use ingredients that grew wild in the area.... Creole food began in New Orleans, and is a mixture of the traditions of French, Spanish, Italian, American Indian, African and other ethnic groups.... [It’s] more sophisticated and complex than Cajun cooking—it’s city cooking.”
At one end of our table at Patrick’s was a native of Lafayette, in the heart of the Acadiana region; at the other, former longtime residents of New Orleans. Though both factions could point to the menu and claim certain dishes as their own, it is in the “in-between” where Patrick’s excels. Chef Reinhardt takes elements of both styles and puts his own stamp on the menu, setting the table for a delectable dining experience everyone will enjoy.
There are so many gems in Reinhardt’s treasure chest that it seems unfair to choose one at the expense of another. The marinated crab claws starter will leave plenty of room for subsequent courses, with morsels of sweet crabmeat dripping with a spicy sauce that smacks a sassy love bite on the tongue. The succulent Gulf shrimp, shells off, bob about in a milder red sauce pleading to be sopped up with the accompanying French bread. The mélange of baked oysters, andouille sausage, butter, bread crumbs and cheese is so decadent, it might possibly be illegal, at least in Tennessee; we reveled in every hedonistic mouthful. The mini muffulettas are small masterpieces, good ’n’ greasy interpretations of one of New Orleans’ classic blue-collar sandwiches: Italian ham, salami, provolone and olive salad on a buttered, toasted bun.
All Louisianans have their own ideas of what makes the perfect gumbo, crawfish étouffée or jambalaya—as volatile a taste topic as barbecue in Tennessee—but Patrick’s versions of each passed the test with our demanding judges. The eat-it-with-a-fork smoky turkey and andouille gumbo took home the blue ribbon, the spicy étouffée earned the red, and the hearty jambalaya ranked third in this competitive category.
If your tastes tend toward “city cooking,” there are several entrées that will satisfy cosmopolitan diners, among them the Cornish Hen Tchoupitoulas, roasted and served whole with a robust mushroom jus. Soft-shell crabs are the focal point of daily interpretations, while straight-man chicken breasts get a queer-eye makeover in a seductive butter sauce with andouille, crawfish, peppers and tomato. The Shrimp and Tasso on Music Row balances sweet shellfish with salty tasso ham, tossing it with linguini in a light sauce of diced Roma tomatoes, fresh herbs and Asiago, Romano and Parmesan cheeses.
This cozy restaurant is the perfect vehicle for a Big Easy getaway, with an unassuming authenticity lent by the compact, 12-seat bar immediately inside the front door, the narrow dining room, the sloping wooden floors, the partially exposed brick, the earthy colors and the unadorned tables. Patrick’s is an unpretentious, laid-back, laissez les bon temps rouler kind of joint that doesn’t put a lot of account into fancy accoutrements, but instead focuses attention where it really counts: on flawless, attentive service, quality of product, and a respect for customers’ pocketbooks, with entrées averaging around $13. Sunday dinner at Patrick’s delivered just what it promised—an authentic taste of Louisiana—accomplishing the near-impossible in satisfying a group of folks who consider the region’s cuisine sacred, food for the body and the soul. It didn’t make up for my missed trip to New Orleans, but that evening, it was the next best thing to being there.
Lunch on the sun-soaked deck a few days later transported me again, evoking fond memories of past trips to N’awlins, thanks to Patrick’s indescribably delicious Plaquemines Parish smoked pork loin po’boy. The name refers to the pecan wood taken from Chef Reinhardt’s family home back in Louisiana for use in the restaurant’s smoker. The flavor-infused, incredibly moist pork loin is sliced thin, then layered up on a French roll (baked daily to Patrick’s strict specifications), dressed with lettuce, juicy red tomato slices, red onion and homemade mayo, and served with a ramekin of jus and a pile of perfectly crisped shoestring fries. It is a three-napkin sandwich and as fine a po’boy—or a meal—as you will find in New Orleans, Lafayette or anywhere in between.
