Another day, another sunset walk back to the hotel.
Later that evening, my father and I went to Miel for dinner. I started with a glass of sparkling wine, the name of which (of course) escapes me. Oh wait, maybe I do remember it. Well, on the receipt it says 'Poema.'
Forgive the color casts, please. The amuse bouche.
Dad chose to go with the $30 prix fixe menu, which included a soup or salad option, choice of three entrees, and dessert. I went a slightly less economical way and ordered the Osso Bucco. Before our entrees arrived, however, we snacked on fresh bread, creamy butter, lovely marinated olives and some of the best soup either of us have had in quite some time. The soup, pureed sunchokes with caramelized onions, was nice and hot. Oh man, and delicious. Did I mention the delicious-ness quotient? It was quite high. Quite high indeed.
Dad ordered a bottle of 2008 Domaine Faury Syrah. This was a fine, fine wine. Nicely balanced and mellow. I ended up drinking more than my fair share, and its buzz was a generally optimistic expansive kind.
The Osso Bucco came with polenta and a little toothpick with which to scoop out the marrow of the huge chunk of tender goodness's central bone. I have no doubt I will one day write far more on this meal and methods - in terms of the context of this meal - but for the time being I'll abstain from too much intellectualization of my food and simply say that it was quite rich, but delightful.
Dad's meal ended with sorbet. I don't think I tried much of it, but it also looked great.
The final touch of the meal was a plate with two dollops of honey splaced on silver spoons. This was entirely appropriate, as 'Miel' is the French word for honey. I believe this particular honey was relatively local, and it definitely had more depth that your usual honey bear variety.
Just a great, great meal. Service was a little wacky. When we arrived, the front door was locked because the host had gone into the back and felt it best to keep any potential customers out of the foyer...weird. Our waiter was generally on top of his game, though I picked up on a certain 'I am not just a waiter and resent being considered such' vibe from him, which I, as a former service worker, understand but could have done without.
Also, on an entirely unrelated note, though chronologically relevant:
On our return to the hotel, L. called my cell phone. Dad went on up to the hotel room while I spoke with her in the hotel's back parking lot area. It was during this conversation that I saw the pants-less man. Or, as my cousin K. called him when I told her about it, the 'Nash Villain.' Heh. I just can't quite get over it. I mean, it was a well-lit and traveled parking lot, and not too late at night, and yet I turn my head and see a naked butt receding from my view? Where did he come from?! Why no pants!? These were, of course, questions I immediately started to discuss with L. I can only imagine that the pants-less man heard these queries and thought it best to return to show me the view from the front (which didn't really answer any of the questions). I can't tell you a thing about his face, so distracted was I by his pink tee shirt, longish gray hair and, oh yes, the 'junk.' When did people first start referring to male genitalia as 'junk'? Well, I guess I can now cross 'see naked man's scrotum and penis in a Nashville hotel parking lot' off my bucket list.