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Opryland - Part 2
Written by: Dominick A. Miserandino
Photography by: Margherita Miserandino
True, 'down home,' southern hospitality at its finest can be found in one of Country Music's oldest living legends, Opryland. Just don't ask them for Iced Tea, or expect to have the last word. But they do it with a smile, so you may get used to it!
But wait, the insanity didn't stop there. We got to meet Ms. Human Resources. I hate mentioning people who work for an organization as it sounds unusual and forced, but she was such a unique character she had to mentioned. First, she knew everybody by name. Every single worker who would walk by she knew by name. I had to test this skill. How could the head of HR know every 3,000+ current employees by name?
The test began.
"Wow, that guy over there sure looks funny." I said, while pointing out somebody across the street and down the block.
"Oh, John... he's a great guy... he worked last night pretty late, even though he has two kids at home."
There was another random guy walking by, so I again decide to try the test, "Wow, that guy over there... now he's really unusual."
"Who?"
"The guy across the street, down the block, behind that tree."
"Oh, I've not seen him in about six months; he works across the complex, but Jose is a wonderful fellow."
Six months had gone by, and the woman was like the Amazing Kreskin memorizing names easier than I can conquer my grocery list.
The other thing I did was a bit crueler; I’ll admit that now.
I oversaw a memo down a hallway that talked about the "smiles for good service"--or something like that.
It seems every employee must always smile, and say the first and last thing in a conversation; it gives people the impression they're paying attention. Even if they say the last goodbye, that counts.
Well, whenever Mrs. Human Resources would say, "I'll be back in a minute," and pop down a corner, I'd say something to her. Not after she left, but at that split second when it would be socially implied that I had the last word. Instinctually she'd joke or laugh back.
Margherita nudged me and said that this wasn't a very nice thing to do.
I then tried thinking of things that she couldn't possibly respond to.
"Okay, I'll be back in a second."
"Yes, you'll be back in about a second," I said.
"Yes, a second," she replied.
"Not two seconds." I had to get the last word.
"Yep, I'm running off," and she shut the door before I could respond.
I tortured the poor woman for half an hour and couldn't win at this game--even once.
Well, after the dirty looks stopped from my wife for torturing the innocent Ms. Human Resources, we left the laundry building and decided to go for a little walk around the place to see the three atriums. That night we were going to the Old Hickory Steakhouse. I didn’t know much about the place, but every time I mentioned it, people would look at me with awe.
"Oh, Old Hickory. That's nice." They would say nodding their heads and even whistling on occasion. I would test everybody there and get the same reaction.
"Old Hickory. Eso es bueno." It seemed to be universally appreciated here.
The Old Hickory Steakhouse was a copy of an antebellum mansion they had erected in the Delta Atrium. It easily ranked as the best restaurant we've visited. No, I'm not lying. In fact, for the entire dinner, we tried to think of a better meal we might have had on another trip.
"How about the barbecue we had on the deck of that Mediterranean cruise ship?"
"Ooh, that was good; but even though the cruise had a prettier backdrop, the food here is better."
"OK, how about New York City?"
"These prices are more reasonable, and the steaks are better."
The mini Zagat-type of review went on and on.
Why was this the best restaurant that wins the Dominick’s "Best Restaurant We've Ever Eaten at" Award? I’ll give you two reasons. First is the ambiance. Here we are in this atrium, which is perfectly temperature controlled, and makes you feel like you are in Hawaii. Second is the food. The steaks were excellent. Don’t get me wrong; the other dishes were equally as good. They even had an artichoke appetizer which I used to challenge my mother-in-law’s culinary horizons.
"The artichokes here are stuffed with goat cheese and fried like a chicken leg."
"No is true..." she said in broken English over the cell phone.
"Yes."
"I no can believe. You take picture and show me," she responded.
She didn’t care about how the place looked, simply if she could perfect their artichoke recipe. Hell hath no fury like a Sicilian mother with a culinary challenge.
Read Part 1 | Read Part 2 | Read Part 3 | Read Part 4 | Read Part 5
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