About My Neighborhood, er, Geographical Location

An excellent article from the latest issue of the Nashville Scene:

Like New York City’s hottest ’hood, Williamsburg, East Nashville lies just across a river to the east of downtown. Both neighborhoods have become hotbeds for their respective music scenes—Williamsburg has the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Interpol, TV on the Radio, Nada Surf and Les Savy Fav, while East Nashville has Falls City Angels, Carter Administration, Hands Down Eugene, Ole Mossy Face, Todd Snider, Alcohol Stuntband, Amelia White and, as of recently, How I Became the Bomb. And most of all, both are riding that seemingly unstoppable trajectory from blight to bohemia to BMWs.

Nowhere is the cosmopolitan vibe of the new East Nashville more evident than at Marché’s weekend brunch. On a recent Saturday morning, eight überhipsters—including one young lad in an ascot who looks like he just stumbled off Jay Gatsby’s couch—are sitting at a pair of tables pushed together, a Nylon magazine ad come to life. Two stylishly dressed twentysomething women, one white and one black, sip champagne drinks interspersed with gulps of Marché’s coffee, a bewitching brew strong enough to dissolve titanium.

Marché is considered trendy by some, and given the throngs who flock there—not to mention a revolving menu that features phrases such as “with artichoke mint pesto”—it’s understandable. But “trendy” implies faddish and superficial, and as the throngs of Nashvillians who eat there regularly can attest, Marché may be the most consistent breakfast/lunch/brunch spot in town. Five bucks will buy you a killer BLT. The omelets are excellent, the desserts worth the trip from Bellevue all by themselves.

The restaurant, flooded by natural light, hums with energy. The clientele offers a heady mix of the young and beautiful, art punks with their hair in their faces, well-heeled middle-aged couples and mom-and-baby foursomes. Weekend brunch can be an hour wait. One patron eyes the lengthy waiting list, then glances at the high-end jams, olives, pastas and condiments that line the farm-style bookshelves and cupboards. He sighs to his girlfriend, “It’s the yuppie Cracker Barrel.” A woman from Bellevue peruses the crowd, then looks at her friend and says, “I’m not cool enough to live in East Nashville.”

The view through Marché’s full-length windows, however, is anything but yuppified. It looks onto Hunters Custom Automotive, catty-corner to the bustling eatery. In Hunters’ parking lot sit two Hummers, one silver and one black, along with six or seven pickups ranging from big to ridiculous. Hunters provides rims, nerf bars, spoilers and whatever else you need to pimp your ride—one of the few places where the worlds of monster-truck rednecks and bass-bumpin’ homeboys intersect. And you can take it all in while savoring your marinated chickpea salad—a surreal juxtaposition that is uniquely East Nashville.