Though it sits right in the middle of Music Row, the stucco-sided, trailer-shaped Bobby's Idle Hour is a curiosity better suited to a remote stretch of Highway 66. Even with a two-story, brightly colored statue of a honky-tonker in the front yard, drivers frequently overlook the low-hanging building on 16th Avenue South. Inside, you'll find a quintessential dive comfortably frozen in time. The heavy air smells of Marlboros, the beer is cheap and American, and the resident barflies are as dusty as the window ledges. Friendly service comes in the form of tattered beer cozies to help your cold one remain upright on the impossibly wobbly tables. The strangely well-lit back room offers a scruffy pool table and a lingering undercurrent of shady dealings.
Idle Hour opens at 10 a.m., providing a refuge for struggling songwriters to shed a tear in their beer or drink their way out of writer's block. The unflappable barkeeps pass no judgment, though they may offer some candid advice. Expect to meet your fellow drinkers, especially when there are only four or five of you in the bar. The chatter can range from childhood BB gun mishaps to discourse on Iraq, with the likes of Willie Nelson's "Whiskey River" providing the soundtrack. Order a Bud Lite, give a nod to the regulars and you'll fit in just fine.
—Amy Waddell
Dino's: 411 Gallatin Rd., 227-8998
After 17 years in the hotel industry, the last thing Peggy Autry planned to do with her retirement was run a bar. But when her husband of 43 years, John Autry, passed away last January, she found herself at the helm of Dino's, the vintage Gallatin Road bar and restaurant that was her late husband's pride and joy. Pictures of John dot the walls at Dino's. They show a jovial yet professional man—he also ran Autry Auto Service on Main Street—who took pride in knowing his clientele personally.
That clientele is proving loyal to Peggy Autry, who bashfully confesses that she spends most of her days "moving in and getting it under control." Dino's has a classic diner look, complete with oval windows, a Formica lunch counter and a stainless steel grill that is, in a word, spotless. (In 2001, Dino's received a Metro Health Department award for cleanliness.) Food is available whenever the bar is open (approximately 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.), and the menu features not only the standard burgers and wings, but also steak dinners and breakfasts served anytime—a fact worth noting, given Nashville's scarcity of breakfast nooks.
Thankfully, there's no talk of a writer's night at Dino's. Entertainment is limited to a seldom used dartboard and a single, aging television. "And our guests," Peggy Autry is quick to point out, "have full control of the remote."
—Paul Griffith
George's Pub: 1501 Second Ave. S., 259-2343
As much as I enjoy the hip vibe of Tribe, there are times when I couldn't pass a Queer Eye inspection, but need a happy hour anyway. That's when I head to George's Pub, billed as "Nashville's Only Gay Sports Bar." Apparently, I'm not alone. In spite of—or maybe because of—its off-the-beaten-path location, you'll find stockbrokers sitting on stools next to stock boys.
The bar sits by the Fairgrounds, just past where Nolensville Road splits into Fourth and Second avenues. It's easier to spot now that the trailer next door burned down. The wood-paneled room is decorated with sports memorabilia; a dartboard and pool table sit at one end, the bar at the other. TVs are everywhere, and when the Lady Vols play, you can count on a packed house. For the games, owner/bartender George McIntyre outfits the place with balloons in school colors.
Conversation comes easily here. The loudest sounds are laughter and the clatter of billiards. The regular patrons know nearly everyone who comes in and shout playful insults from their stools. First-timers are always welcome; it's very straight-friendly and far less intimidating than trendier bars. On Wednesdays, Steve Mogck's karaoke night draws a big following, with people getting up to sing everything from Shania to Sinatra with Broadway tunes in between.
Unlike a lot of watering holes in Nashville, George's offers a full bar. Martini glasses clink against Bud bottles. The menu is simple—pizza and pretzels—and during a big game, customers get to enjoy free hot dogs, chili and nachos. "We're your neighborhood party place," George says. "We host lots of birthdays, and the patio we're building has already been reserved for monthly gatherings of the Smoky Mountain Rodeo Association, the Conductors, the Tennessee Area Naturists and gay softball teams. You name it, they're here—gay, straight, black, white, all colors, boys, girls—and that's how it should be."
—Danny Proctor
Pop's Place: 2907 Gallatin Rd., 226-9106
There's a fine line between a neighborhood bar and a dive, and Pop's Place walks that line as well as any joint in town. Billed as "East Nashville's home away from home," Pop's is clean and good-natured, yet retains a wisp of the seedy hopelessness that makes Gallatin Road famous. The place was formerly known as Ma & Pa's—though rumors of an ugly split between Ma and Pa are completely unfounded—and current owner Sherry Garland has made numerous improvements since taking it over two-and-a-half years ago. The bathrooms are remodeled and clean, CMT and the soaps are broadcast over brand-new TVs, and a spacious deck has been added in the back.
With two regulation pool tables, electronic darts and a menu that features fried bologna sandwiches and manager/bartender Jim "BB" McKinney's famous homemade pickled eggs, Pop's meets all the requirements for both nighttime and daytime beer drinking. East Nashville pest control legend Robert Swift, "The Singing Bug Man," leads the karaoke on Friday evenings, and lately McKinney has been experimenting with live music. Pop's best feature, however, is its regular clientele, who may appear intimidating at first, but are a lighthearted bunch quick to welcome first-timers.
Pop's is open daily, from 11 a.m. "until they quit buyin'," says McKinney.
—Paul Griffith
Little Sam's: 1433 12th Ave. S., 298-5848
There are some days that are so bad that you want to plop a few bucks down on the counter of an uncrowded bar and get yourself a big bottle of Bud (32 or 40 ounces, depending on just how bad the day has sucked). Maybe throw in one of those jarred pickles that look like they've been there since the Nixon administration.
To be perfectly honest, a trip to Little Sam's in Edgehill can be daunting for a liberal arts-educated yuppie. But one sip into the brew and a minute or two of casual conversation, and any apprehension melts away. It is relaxing. Plus, there's an odd justice and comfort to being the only white face in an inner-city watering hole. And the regulars couldn't be more gracious. There's also something pricelessly endearing and real about a hand-written beer menu with Heineken added, in green magic marker, as a late addition.
Predictably, Little Sam's doesn't have an interior designer. Metal chairs accompany the kind of long tables you'd find in a church basement for after-service coffee and doughnuts. But when the beer is cold and the regulars are friendly, none of that really matters.
—Liz Murray Garrigan
Don't Know Lounge: 4054 Andrew Jackson Way, 883-4680
So the husband comes home at 3:30 in the morning; he's had a beer or two. His irate spouse meets him at the door.
"Where have you been?" she asks in an agitated voice.
"Don't Know," he replies.
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"That's what I said," he says. "Don't Know."
"You &^%#!!! Quit telling me you don't know. For the last time, where the hell have you been all night?"
"I told you," he repeats with rising impatience. "Don't Know."
Poor guy. He ain't lyin'. He really has spent the evening parked on a bar stool in Hermitage, at The Don't Know Lounge.
Don't Know is way too clean to be considered a dive bar, though when Kay and Keith Toler bought the property—and decided to hold onto the bar as a service to its devoted patrons—the place was in pretty bad shape. "I swear, the whole thing was held together by 49 extension cords and nothin' else," Kay remembers.
Years before, the Don't Know was the Penalty Box, owned by former Dixie Flyers hockey player Flo Pilote. Keith Toler, a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals until he ripped apart his rotator cuff, knew the location because he'd gone to McGavock High with Flo's sons Mark and Terry. The bar had been the Don't Know for several years when the Tolers took it over in 1996, spending considerable time and money to fix the place up. As bartender Clyde Mathis notes, "The ladies appreciate a clean bathroom."
Most of the customers here are regulars and have either "lived together, worked together or slept together," Kay says. "Sometimes all three. It's everybody's business around here." Years ago, when Pilote sold the Penalty Box and Mathis was just a customer there, the new owner was trying to come up with a name; Mathis suggested Nobody's Business. "But nobody liked it," he remembers. "We asked Big Earl what he thought the new name should be, and he said, 'Don't Know.' That sounded good to us."
—Kay West
The East Side: 2517 Gallatin Road, 226-9697
The Gallatin Road entrance of the East Side bar isn't too welcoming—customers have to push aside the white security gate to get to the door. But if you enter from the back parking lot, you'll walk right over a Have a Nice Day welcome mat, and into a place where time stands still. "Everyone used to say Dusty Roads was the oldest bar in Nashville," owner Fran Adams says from her post behind the bar. "But they're wrong. This is the oldest bar in Nashville."
She should know: She's been in the business more than 30 years and has owned or operated many of Nashville's most storied downtown lounges and taverns of the '70s, among them the Broadway Club, the Full House, the Alley Cat, the High Hat, the Night Life, the Green Cat and, for the last 13 years, the East Side. Though the dark and smoky bar hardly seems a place that would attract celebrities, it has had more than its 15 minutes of fame, thanks to a Trace Adkins video and a Dusters album cover. Eighty-something-year-old Uncle Jack opens up every morning at 6:30; the first customers—for a cup of coffee—are usually Alice and Charlie, who come in every morning. Beer is by the bottle or on draft in a jug for 2 bucks. A mini-mart sits behind the bar, atop the big jars of pickled eggs, pickled sausage and dill pickles, offering regulars such personal necessities as Caress body lotion, Alka-Seltzer, Tums, Trojans, Beenie-Weenies, Vienna sausage, Spam and sardines. The East Side has a three-piece band every Friday and karaoke on Saturday nights.
—Kay West
D&D: 512 51st Ave. N., 297-7829
"I guess you could call 'em family, but they're not kin," says D&D's bartender Connie Robinson when asked about her clientele. For those familiar with the D&D, "family" might not be the first word that comes to mind. Located on the fringe of an industrial area, the shingled monolith has long owned a forbidding reputation. Until recently, that is. New owners Diane Johnson and Sonja Mills, a mother and daughter team who bought the D&D last August, have determinedly brought an air of civility to the beer bar, which lies in the shadow of West Nashville's BP oil terminal.
"We want a bar where people can feel comfortable, but also to bring in the history of the place, 'cause it's been around a while," says Johnson, whose first order of business was to upgrade the rest rooms. Improvements to the kitchen have also proved successful: The D&D's bar fare, which was already tasty, will soon benefit from the services of Cheatham County chef Betty Ramsey. The new ownership has instituted Free Pool Night on Tuesdays and tournament play on Wednesdays and Sundays, while the spacious side bar is open for special occasions like Saturday karaoke and occasional live music. All the improvements in the world, however, won't chase the dive bar ghosts from the D&D, and that's a good thing. As it stands, the bar, which claims to be both family- and biker-friendly, is a perfect bridge between West Nashville's industrial past and Sylvan Park's increasingly gentrified northernmost sector.
—Paul Griffith
