One:
Barrel & Biscuits

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12…11…10…

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“Johannsen, party of three, your table is now available,” an announcement repeats through the tinny speaker, echoing throughout the parking lot.

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The smell of freshly cut grass with a tiny taste of honeysuckle floats on the wind. The pinwheel of cowboy hats dances above a brown mailbox along a nicely paved street in the richest area in Nashville, Tennessee. The mailbox’s number, 907, shimmers in the morning light, glistening onto the cars driving past it on Mallory Street.

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“Parker, party of four, your table is now available,” the announcement says. 

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A short walk from the brown matte mailbox sits a parking lot in front of a country-themed restaurant called Barrel & Biscuits. The mailbox's matching matte brown paint stains the exterior walls of this place, with its only highlights being the chrysanthemum bushes in the front lining the sidewalk, leading towards the rocking chairs and the doors.

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9…8…7…

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“Wood, party of two, your table is now available,” the speaker beckons along the sidewalk, where rocking chairs and tic-tac-toe boards line the exterior windows of the dining room. 

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Opening the doors to the wood-paneled scape of general store-themed merchandise from brands only available in two other places – swap meets and flea markets. The obscure farm equipment and 1950s farm décor only gather to entice its patrons to the “down home country cookin’” that is the biscuits and gravy of Barrel & Biscuits bread and butter.

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“Layfield, party of two, your party is now available,” the announcement calls from the speakers in the gift shop of the store.  

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The smell of freshly made biscuits, bacon, and eggs entices patrons to the dining room. However, first, they must visit the host stand and be guided to their new destination: a table where their adventure in southern cooking awaits. 

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6…5…4….

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John, the twenty-three-year-old host, stands behind his stand. His brown apron rests on his white button-up, covering the top half of his black dress pants. His name is prominently displayed in a bright yellow cursive that sits underneath a row of three yellow stars. He grabs the microphone from the side of the stall-like booth, keys it up, and reads the name from the paper in front of him. 

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“Ilunga,” he calls into the microphone, unsure of how to pronounce it. “Ilunga, party of twelve, your table is now available.” 

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As he clicks the microphone back into its spot, a large Latino party of ages from five to a hundred and five walks up to the podium. They are the picture of generational Latino beauty. The kids dress up as cowboys, spitting images of their fathers, while the women are all in white dresses with beautiful flowers, splashing the party with color. 

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“If you’ll just follow me this way,” John says, leading them to the table. 

“Sorry,” the oldest man stutters. “N-No hablamos inglés.” 

“Oh,” John smiles. “Está bien. Hablo español, pero no estoy fluidez.” 

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The old man looks at him and smiles. His bright teeth shine in the love of dentures. He can be understood by a white man who took enough time to learn a language not his own. 

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3…

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As they take their seats at the table, one of the mothers approaches John with a camera in hand. She points to the family and then back to the camera. It’s a disposable camera with a bright yellow body highlighted with black and red stripes and swipes.  It’s a winder and viewfinder cast in black with a white arrow that says, “Point this way.” John’s only seen this in old movies. 

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“You want me to take a picture?” John asks the woman. 

“Yes, yes,” she says, nodding her head enthusiastically. “Picture. Picture.”

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2…

    

John takes the camera as the older woman barks rapid commands in Spanish for her family to get into position. They’re lined up against the lattice wall of this dining room from the tallest in the back to the shortest in the front.

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“Everyone ready?” John asks. “Decir queso!”

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1…

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“Queso,” the family is picturesque.

John presses the shutter. 

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And then… 

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KABOOM!