Dinner at Lonesome Dove

​A few updates since last we spoke:

1. I survived Lollapalooza. Again.
2. My feet are still one giant, fat blister and look like they went through a paper shredder.
3. I apologize, #2 was graphic.
4. I had a Chocotaco on Saturday and it reminded me why I even bother with living in the first place. Still so good.

Okay cool. Now you’re all caught up.

So, in other very delicious news - I took my fork to Knoxville, Tennessee this week. I loved it. How did no one ever tell me how precious this city is? That’s not a rhetorical question... I’m genuinely offended that no one has escalated this to my attention before this point.

Knoxville is one part gorgeous old buildings, one part hipster-y bars, one part adorable town square, and ten parts stupid-good food. And everyone is SO nice. Every hotel doorman, restaurant server, Uber driver... American sweethearts. Under the influence of a glass or two of red wine, I almost invited the 70 year old elevator bellboy at the Tennessean to my wedding. He was just so dang friendly.

With only one day in town and a lifetime of calories to eat, I needed to be deliberate in what made the cut. The literal cut, with my knife.

We had lunch at a place off the Market Square called Tupelo Honey. Long story short, it was Southern Charming as f%ck. I had a pulled pork and peach sandwich, dipped in a side of hot honey. Collard greens on the side. Are you drooling yet? I’m drooling. My hands have drool on them. I’m typing through the drool. Sparks are flying from my computer because of the drool on the keyboard. I need a towel. I need a new computer.

I was sad when the server came to take my plate, even though it was licked clean.

For dinner, we were lucky to be able to get a last minute reservation for a restaurant called Lonesome Dove that had been identified, by all Yelp and TripAdvisor accounts on the interwebs, as the best restaurant in town. The menu was like a National Geographic article outlining regional flora and fauna. Rattlesnake, elk, rainbow trout, rabbit. I felt rugged and manly even reading it when I booked the reservation.

The joint itself is an old storefront building in the “Old City” area of Knoxville. Stained glass, crumbling bricks, steeple-like spire on the roof. Every bit the western saloon-looking doppelgänger of a set out of Westworld.

Since we were with a large group, we sat in the Kitchen room, a beautifully designed semi-private cove where you can see all the chefs working from your seat. We enjoyed stiff cocktails, including a smoked Manhattan that’s served on a cutting board under a glass dome filled with wood smoke. I am such a sucker for gimmicky cocktails and this was no exception.

We started with rattlesnake, because who wouldn’t? If you had a chance to eat man’s mortal enemy, you would do it, too. You’d also do it because sausage made with rattlesnake is SO GODDAMN GOOD. They served it over a little potato pancake nest and it had a tiny Texas flag on top. My heart! It’s melting.

Next up: crispy Brussels sprouts. Charred little babies, served with honey puffed farro and whipped ricotta. Side note: Tennessee servings > Chicago restaurant servings. The sprouts alone could have been a meal. I didn’t finish the last five and that NEVER happens. It wasn’t because they weren’t divine. It was because I was slowly turning into Violet Beauregard and my body was expanding into the shape of a massive blueberry.

For my main, I was convinced by our server to try the rainbow trout stuffed with chorizo and sweet potato corn succotash. This was the only moment in the meal where I had a little pang of regret. I was torn between the sugar cured pork belly and the trout and my pea brain was shouting PORK but my mouth said, “TROUT.” I hate when I do that sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, it was fine. But there wasn’t nearly enough chorizo. In fact, I could hardly taste any chorizo. So then it was just me eating plain fish with vegetables. Which sounds (and tastes) a lot less exciting.

Dessert reminded me that everything was going to be alright, though. A simple s’mores cheesecake with chocolate ganache, graham crackers, and torched marshmallow goo. I was in physical pain at this point in time from how full I was, but I didn’t give up. I crushed it.

Overall, solid experience. Good service, stiff drinks, decent wines by the glass, lovely ambiance, tasty eats. Wonderful conversation and company. The Forkling gives it: 7.2 forks out of 10.0.

That might be harsh, but when I’m promised chorizo and don’t get chorizo, someone’s getting a 7.

Now I’m sitting on a plane, heading to Detroit, with a Biscoff cookie on my lap. And the weirdest thing is happening. I’m not eating it. I LOVE Biscoff airplane cookies... what’s wrong with me? Oh wait, it’s because I’m still SO full from dinner last night. Touché. 7.3 forks for the Tennessee portion sizes.

I’m going to need to be rolled off this plane.