In this week’s cover story, check out a few of Nashville’s most adventurous drinks, discover which beer goes best with hot chicken, and go on the hunt for some of the South’s most sought-after bourbon. And on the non-booze front, see the results of the Scene’s blind coffee taste test, find out what you get when you order a mocktail in Nashville, meet some creative baristas, and read the story of a dangerous beverage cart girl.
Scene writers risk life and limb to sample some of Nashville's most daring drinks
The Villager's Dog Bowl
It's as indispensable a Hillsboro Village tradition as the long lines in front of Pancake Pantry or the jaywalking pedestrians ambling through traffic: The Villager Tavern's ancient, storied dog bowl. Now featuring mostly illegible messages and initials scrawled and carved all over it — it once upon a time said "Purina Dog Chow" — the bowl is filled to the brim with beer and offered to any patron celebrating his or her birthday. Do you have to finish it? Well, no, not technically; it's a damn large bowl, probably originally intended for a mastiff or at least a lab. But it's good luck! Drink up, and try not to think about it! —D. PATRICK RODGERS
The Cannonball at Silo
Everyone likes a good adventurous gimmick from time to time, but what's particularly neat is when a drink is as toothsome as it is flashy. At Silo in Germantown, bartender Christopher Weber offers up just such a drink of his own design. Originally named The Steve McQueen — because it was once made with Bulleit Bourbon, geddit? — The Cannonball now features George Dickel and whiskey-barrel-aged bitters along with Meletti and Averna liqueurs, and it's finished with a flamed orange. Literally flashy! Essentially, it's just a slightly tweaked Black Manhattan — tall and very boozy but surprisingly smooth, thanks in part to that citrus finish — and one goes a long way. But hey, it's only six bones at happy hour, and who doesn't like a little bit of pyro? To get it with Bulleit, order it as a McQueen. —D. PATRICK RODGERS
The Last Year in Odessa at Holland House Bar and Refuge
Egg white has been used as an ingredient in drinks for centuries, but it largely fell out of favor until the craft cocktail revival of the past few years. And guess what: It's not really that dangerous — despite a general fear of raw eggs, the chance of getting salmonella from fresh egg white is slight. The role of egg white in cocktails can be summed up by the word "layers," as in it adds a layer of creamy flavor while also creating a physical layer on top of the drink. This frothy foam encapsulates the drink (and incidentally provides a surface that bartenders often decorate). The cocktail Last Year in Odessa served at Holland House is remarkably complex, though it broadly shares flavors with the good old-fashioned margarita. In addition to Altos reposado tequila, it uses Vida mezcal, tequila's rustic but elegant cousin, which adds a distinct smokiness. Like a margarita, the LYO cocktail includes lime, but the balancing sweetness is provided by zippy ginger syrup. Then there's a hit of green Chartreuse, a classic French liqueur said to be made with 130 herbs. A pretty pattern of Peychaud's bitters tops it all off — it's well worth shaking off those raw-egg warnings. —DANA KOPP FRANKLIN
Papaw at No. 308
As death-defying adventure goes, eating peanuts isn't exactly on par with bungee jumping, snake handling or free diving — unless you're among the roughly 1 percent of the populace with an allergy to peanuts or tree nuts, for whom a jar of Jif might as well be a Claymore mine. If you don't know whether you're one of them, that would be a good thing to learn before you order the Papaw at East Nashville's No. 308: a tall Mexican Coke in a sweaty glass bottle, into which bartender Britt Soler pours a shot of Belle Meade Bourbon and a fistful of potentially lethal (probably not) legumes.
Coke and peanuts — particularly those in a convenience-store pack of the Tom's variety — are a staple of Southern childhoods. Soler says the tradition goes back to the days when miners would empty their nuts into a soda bottle (haven't we all?) rather than carry them in hands streaked with soot and grease. Whether that's the case or not, the oil and salt from the nuts cause an immediate fizz — she's gonna blow! — that gives the Papaw an admittedly modest extra flare-up of excitement.
Mostly, it's a damn fine bourbon and Coke with a built-in snack. A chowdown on toxic blowfish it ain't. But if you want to tell yourself you've cheated death, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and swagger out the door, where you come face to face with real danger: traffic on Gallatin Road. —JIM RIDLEY
Cham-Pain
If you haven't been introduced to the art of "sabrage" — opening a bottle of bubbly by carefully and quickly slicing its top off with a sword — Vivek Surti would be happy to teach you. Surti, creator of blog/pop-up series Vivek's Epicurean Adventures, entered the world of sabrage after watching a YouTube video of Alton Brown practicing the craft. Remembering that he, too, owned a sword (he's had it since he was 10, and that's way cooler than a BB gun) Surti decided to give this excellent party trick a shot on New Year's Eve. He's been slaying bottles ever since.
Knowing things could get messy — if you hit the bottle too hard, it could explode — I meet up with Surti in Dragon Park, where he's armed with three bottles of Poema Cava from Spain and a sword (which hopefully isn't as illegal as it sounds). As if this isn't dangerous enough, a massive thunderstorm hits as soon as we arrive.
While the rest of us take refuge under a pavilion, we send Surti into the storm with his sword and the first bottle of cava. Fortunately, he is not struck by lightning, but upon impact, the bottle shatters near the neck, sending shards of glass and a stream of cava into the air. Surti looks a little disappointed, but we conclude that the rapid shift in air pressure and pounding rain have affected his usual surgeon's precision (see for yourself by following him at @SabrageSociety on Instagram). Undaunted, we inspect the remaining contents of the bottle for errant shards of glass, fill our tiny paper Dixie cups with freshly sabered cava and take a short drink break before Surti winds up for round two.
BOOM. That's not the sound of thunderbolt or lightning, but of a perfectly executed bottle, cleanly severed near the cork. Since we have another bottle of cava, and we're not going anywhere until the rain subsides, we decide to kill the last one, too. Now it's a party.
For over an hour the four of us — me, Surti, a Scene photographer and a random woman looking to escape the rain — are stuck under the pavilion with three bottles of cava, which is as dangerous (and illegal) as it sounds. Finally, the rain stops, and the party breaks up. We trudge through the spongy, muddy grass back to the car, the last half-full (not half-empty, I'm an optimist!) bottle of cava clutched in my hand.
I nearly make it out unscathed, until the wet bottle slips from my grasp, neatly slicing me between my thumb and forefinger.
Oh well. If that's the price you pay for a good time, it's totally worth it. —ABBY WHITE
