Stoveworks
The Factory at Franklin, 230 Franklin Rd., Franklin. 791-6085
Open Mon.-Sat. 11 a.m.-2 p.m.
When the Off-Broadway Shoe Warehouse opened in the early ’90s, it was an immediate, unqualified success, and why wouldn’t it have been? It offered thousands of shoes in styles ranging from the dreaded sensible rubber soles to XXX stiletto-heeled you-know-what-me pumps, and all discount-priced to boot. Some 10 years later, now ensconced in a new location twice as big as the original, Off-Broadway remains hugely popular with the women of Nashville. That’s because it’s the appropriate response to so many situations. Feeling blue? Feeling happy? Got that job you were hoping for? Broke up with your boyfriend? Gained 10 pounds? Lost 10 pounds? Bad hair day? Off-Broadway is the obvious answer.
In short, Off-Broadway Shoe Warehouse does for women what a nudie bar might do for men, except better: Once we pay for them, the shoes are ours to keep until they wear out or we get tired of them. I don’t think many men can say that of the gals at Tiffany’s Gentleman’s Cabaret. All in all, Off-Broadway is a very pleasant experience, but truth be told, it can get ugly, and I’m not talking about catfights over the last pair of size 8 Manolo Blahniks.
No, it’s the men. M-E-N. Not the teased-hair he-she over in the dominatrix boot section asking for size 15. I mean honest-to-God, sports-obsessed, I-don’t-ask-for-directions-or-pick-up-my-socks, testosterone-addled heterosexual men. They follow their women around, up and down the aisles, like prisoners of war. Every once in a while they pause, the woman picks up a shoe, waves it under the man’s nose, and asks, ”Do you like this?“ The man gives the only acceptable, non-incriminating response he can: He grunts. She tries it on. She asks again. He grunts again. She puts the shoe back in the box, and they continue down the aisle. It’s pathetic. For crying out loud, the next thing you know, he’ll be carrying her purse.
I see this happening, and I want to slap these men silly. I want to grab them by their chest hairs and scream, ”What’s the matter with you? Are you man or are you mouse? Snap out of it!“ What are they doing there? Can their wives not drive?
Men, if dire circumstances force your wife/girlfriend/sister to Off-Broadway, drop her off at the front door, tell her to call you when she’s finished, and zip over to Broadway Brewhouse and Mojo Grill for a cold beer and hot tamale. The only men who should be in Off-Broadway are the members of the beefy security force there to protect the little ladies in the event of an attack by an all-female terrorist group intent on hoarding all the shoes in the world.
I was reminded of all this last week as I was lady-lunching with three girlfriends at Stoveworks Restaurant in The Factory at Franklin, when I spotted two men at the next table. They were easy to spot, being the only two men at a table of about 10 women—in fact, they were the only two men in the restaurant. I briefly entertained the thought that they were so secure in their masculinity that eating finger sandwiches and scoops of rice pudding off plates with white paper doilies posed no issues for them. Nah. Here’s a piece of advice for you, Bubba: If any woman—wife, girlfriend, colleague—proposes lunch at Stoveworks, just say no. No excuse needed. She will respect you for it in the morning, I promise.
As far as womenfolk are concerned, there are plenty of reasons to visit Stoveworks. For one, it’s right across the hall from Viking Culinary Arts Institute, which is to the kitchen what Off-Broadway is to shoes; enter at your own risk. There are also about two-dozen other shops brimming with home gewgaws, furniture, smocked children’s clothing, and bath and beauty products. (For this reason alone, men should probably avoid The Factory altogether.)
The restaurant itself is an excellent and classic example of that peculiar Southern dining institution known as a tearoom. Right away, you know that means you’ll find the following things on the menu: broccoli-cheese soup, chicken salad, pimento cheese, finger sandwiches, congealed salad, blueberry-lemon bread, hot spoonbread, poppyseed dressing, three-bean salad, creamed chicken, strawberry shortcake, hot fudge brownies, bread pudding, and fruit tea. And that is exactly what you will find on the Stoveworks menu, which is completely evocative of the godmother of tearooms, Miss Daisy’s. Along with Daisy King, Marilyn and Calvin Lehew opened Miss Daisy’s in the mid-’70s in Franklin. These days, Mr. Lehew is the developer of The Factory at Franklin, and Mrs. Lehew is the owner of Stoveworks, so named because stoves were once manufactured in the building. (The Lehews also owned Choices in Franklin for about a decade.)
Marilyn Lehew is a pro at this kind of restaurant, apparent in everything from the service (friendly and efficient, but not rushed) to the place settings (white paper placemats, thick paper napkins, solid but ladylike flatware) to the food, which for the most part was excellent. Particularly good were the pimento cheese and chicken salads, the congealed cranberry salad, and the creamed chicken over cornbread. The seafood hot brown had a nice flavor to it but was marred by the inclusion of big chunks of that fake crab stuff—one of my biggest pet peeves in restaurants. What is the point? Would anyone put plastic grapes in fruit salad?
The strawberry shortcake was fabulous: fresh strawberries on a homemade shortbread biscuit with real whipped cream. In an attempt to appease any men who are drugged and dragged into Stoveworks, there is a hefty burger and a blue plate special, which on this day was roast beef, mashed potatoes, and fried okra.
Many of Stoveworks’ recipes can be found in the Choices and Miss Daisy’s cookbooks, both of which are for sale at the counter. If you are truly a lady of leisure, and you have a hankering for this kind of food, leave it to the pros; few places do it better than Stoveworks. As for you husbands and boyfriends out there, be warned: Real men don’t eat finger sandwiches.
