What do classic cars, Pit Pigs, Lee Greenwood, and a really, really embarrassing mass "YMCA" interpretive dance have in common? They could all only occur in Sevier County.
by Les DuLunch
It's so easy to laugh at Sevier County—and we Knoxvillians often do as we look down our noses at our shameless but highly successful neighbors.
But for years, Sevier County has laughed too...all the way to bank. What could have been a beautiful, sleepy mountain retreat along the lines of Chautauqua, N.Y., quickly became a tacky temple to quick-buck tourism. The millions of déclassé travelers who pass through the three cities that form the gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park leave millions of dollars behind, spending their hard-earned blue collar bills on log cabin rentals, go-carts, miniature golf, and appliqué T-shirts. The forest-lined slopes of the ancient Appalachians still tower above everything, but they've been relegated to scenic backdrop status for the tourist traps that have blossomed like poisonous flowers in their foothills.
As has-been and never-was country music performers began washing up on the cities' shores in the wake of hometown girl-gone-good, Dolly Parton, Sevier County discovered a lucrative new tourism angle. Well, it really wasn't new. Branson, Mo., a tiny town on the edge of the Ozarks, had likewise transformed itself by becoming a haven for once successful singers. If you build it, apparently they will come. Bonnie Lou and Buster's mid-'80s down-home country hoe-down at Pigeon Forge's Coliseum gave way to the Louise Mandrell Theater, Anita Bryant's show at Music Mansion, and that certain sign of kitschification, the Elvis tribute theater. Theme restaurants could only be a step behind.
But the true theme restaurant is specially designed to provide that most nebulous of modern entertainment concepts—the "experience." From the moment a visitor walks through the door, he is to be assaulted at every turn by elements of the theme. As if conversation and companionship over good food weren't enough, now we must be bombarded with blaring music, a decor that liberally applies neon, and the debris of our super-informed, round-the-clock, 15-minutes-of-fame world, otherwise known as memorabilia.
America's current state of prosperity-fueled turn-of-the-century decadence demands constant entertainment. And theme restaurants are here to provide it in abundance. But one needn't travel all the way to New York or Los Angeles to experience the experience. Sevier County is home to several of these entertainment-filled establishments. Although efforts by blind country crooner Ronnie Milsap and Lawrence Welk alumna Helen Cornelius have gone belly up, there's still the Alabama Grill and Alan Jackson's Showcar Cafe, among others. Even someone named Eddie has gotten in on the action, performing treacly gospel music at his Heart & Soul Cafe.
Sampling the fare of some of these places was an eating extravaganza just waiting to happen, and, as a former Sevier County resident, I was just the man to undertake it. So I packed some friends into the car and off we went.
Confident that I could easily combat any last-hurrah summer weekend traffic, I stuck to the backroads. Turning off Chapman Highway on to White School Road, I snaked along the river route that should have quickly deposited us on convenient Wear's Valley Road. Instead, we rounded a curve, and found ourselves in the epicenter of the annual Shades of the Past rod run. A sea of carefully restored automobiles occupied what was once an out-of-the-way floodplain. Travel on the narrow road ground to a halt.
Forty-five minutes later we had finally traversed the mile that separated us from Pigeon Forge proper. By this point, we'd already seen enough classic cars to preclude Alan Jackson's Showcar Cafe, so we opted instead to start off the day with a trip to Sevier-ville's NASCAR Cafe.
Thematically, it was the most consistent of the three theme restaurants we were to visit that day. It was very big. It was very loud. And, at every turn, it was very NASCAR.
Once we gained entry, we took our place at the pole—house lingo for waiting in line at the hostess stand—before being ushered beneath a couple of suspended stock cars into the Cafe's cavernous, logo-festooned rotunda. A bank of windows overlooked the parking lot and outlet mall to our right. Opposite the scenic view, a pack of life-sized cars were arranged on a sloping curve of track above the dining area. Behind us, a large pantheon of gooney-looking race car drivers grinned and encouraged us to drink Coca-Cola while a jumbo television encouraged us to either buy some official NASCAR products or attend a NASCAR race.
I'm sure there was memorabilia to be located somewhere, but since I've never been able to understand the sport in speeding cars circling endlessly around and around a track, I didn't seek it out and was content simply to eat—in a restaurant. Imagine that.
Our server managed not to sound too mechanical when he intoned in greeting, "Hello there race fans. I'm Scott, your crew chief. Can I bring you some drinks to fuel you up?" Returning with our glasses of iced tea, Scott informed us that he'd give us a few more "laps" to look over the menu before taking our order.
Naturally, my eyes paused on the menu's "Sizzlin' and Swishin'" section—and I did ponder a Dude Steak from among its grilled offerings—but chose to get "Sandwiched In" instead, settling on an oh-so-scrumptious-sounding but rather gristly Pit Pig barbecue sandwich. A Fishtail-N Sandwich of fried scrod, Superclash Catfish nuggets, and a shared order of O Rings coated in thick bread crumb husks rounded out our party's breading-heavy order.
We had hardly lifted our forks when a loud, disembodied voice excitedly advised all the gentlemen present to start their engines. Before I could fish my keys out of my pocket, a thunderous roar shook the room. The cars perched precariously above us began to smoke and fume. I looked to my companions in alarm, but they seemed nonplused and mildly amused. As the roar rose to fever pitch, the cars' wheels started turning. Above it all I could hear the haunting strains of "God Bless the U.S.A." Then, like bad sex, it was thankfully over almost as quickly as it had begun.
"What was that?" I asked incredulously. You see, I didn't understand. One of my friends explained that it was the approximation of attending an actual NASCAR race, replicated here for our dining pleasure. It occurred once more during our dining experience, but by then, the surprise had worn off and all that noise just seemed very, very annoying.
Although the gift shop was placed right beside the egress, we managed to dodge its magnetic pull and took to the backroads once more, heading circuitously toward Gatlinburg and the recently opened Hard Rock Cafe.
Hard Rock, founded in London in the early '70s, is the granddaddy of the theme restaurant boom. Back when there were only a few prominently placed locations, the Hard Rock Cafe was actually cool. But now, with two others in Tennessee alone, the establishment has lost its cachet, reaching rock bottom here in Gatlinburg.
The most hard rock thing about this particular Hard Rock Cafe seemed to be the army of waitresses, waiters, busboys, hosts, managers, and other sundry staff. Male members came in two models: short with short bleached blonde spikes a la Billy Idol, or stringy with flaccid brown ponytails a la pre-Fly Bono. The women were all poured into short, tight Nurse Goodbody uniforms without regard to style, shape, or size. Then there was the strangely slender, pants-clad transgendered figure who began waiting on our table, but was called away to other duties, only to be replaced by one of said nurses—this particular specimen a rather tired-looking woman whose birthing hips appeared as if they may well have been used a few times for that purpose.
No need to describe the menu; with the exception of some interesting Santa Fe-style spring rolls, it was almost identical to the NASCAR Cafe's with a boring selection of burgers, sandwiches, and steaks. Not even a hard rock lobster was to be found. Yawn. But it didn't really matter. After plumbing the depths of my memory to recall long-forgotten backroad routes, I needed a drink desperately—plus, the breading everyone had consumed at NASCAR was expanding uncomfortably in our stomachs.
On to the "experience."
In comparison to Gatlinburg's other architectural masterpieces, like that giant toilet paper roll hotel that hovers ominously above the town, the Hard Rock Cafe looked decidedly demure. The bunker-like building was constructed of simple brick edged in concrete; only a gargantuan guitar sign denoted its purpose.
Entering through the set of doors for actual patrons—there's a separate set conveniently fronting the gift shop for T-shirt hungry visitors—we took our place in a velvet rope cordoned line. Tori Amos' hazy red visage smiled benevolently down upon us from her prominently placed wall opposite the door, but we didn't have long to inspect her gold records.
We were quickly seated at a table in the middle of the room opposite the bar so there was no memorabilia close at hand to investigate. Above the bar, I could see guitars from Beck and Dave Matthews and across the way I could barely make out one that had probably been played only once by the original god of grunge, Keith Richards. Flat, wall-mounted televisions placed periodically about the room broadcast Hard Rock's own MTV-style series of classic tunes. Jimi, John and Yoko, Mick, and Elton were all there to remind us of what rock 'n' roll once was.
After a few sips of my Ether Bunny, a milky concoction similar to a White Russian but made with rum, I immediately set about locating the Madonna memorabilia, finally finding it placed ignominiously by the upstairs restrooms. Naturally, I spent a few moments in silent meditation before the glass case that contained the Material Mama's taupe top hat from the mod-Victorian "Vogue" number that closed her Girlie Show tour. Confident once again that life does indeed have meaning, I returned downstairs. Just as I took my seat, the nautical opening chords of the Village People's hard rock classic, "YMCA," began pumping out of every speaker in the house.
Truly, there are just some things I cannot bear to endure for sheer embarrassment; Barney Fife, Gomer Pyle, Bob Saget, the list goes on and on. When confronted with them in the privacy of my own home, I immediately pull the collar of my shirt up over my nose to create a surprisingly effective anti-embarrassment shield. In order not to look ridiculous when mortified in public, I simply look in another direction and pray the source of my distress comes to its senses or goes far, far away. But this was the most ungodly embarrassment experience I've ever lived to tell about.
Throughout the restaurant, waiters and waitresses leapt up on vacant chairs and begun gyrating like mad, leading the crowd in the song's arm formations. One waiter in particular seemed especially, ummm...effervescent as he ground his hips in some sort of horrible, obscene pony-riding motion before jumping off the chair and galloping around the restaurant with his forearms ineffectually flailing before him like those of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The energetic display prompted one of the septuagenarians at the next table to get up and cut the rug, but I was aghast.
"This is our entertainment," the waitress shouted into my ear as she passed by, obviously as embarrassed as I was for her.
I could only manage an involuntary shudder in return. If Eric Clapton had only known that the Hard Rock Cafe would be brought so low, he'd never have donated the guitar that got the whole ball rolling. I guzzled the cloudy dregs of my drink, quickly rounded up the gang and herded them out the door.
"Retreat! Retreat!" I shouted, running back toward the car.
After still more backroads wanderings and a near-death encounter with a van on Highway 66, we made our way back toward I-40 to our final destination—LG's on the River.
Who could have possibly foreseen that Lee Greenwood's comparatively understated restaurant would provide a pleasantly quiet coda to the day? It was almost enough to make me forgive him the strangely rehydrated vegetables that were served in our appetizers.
LG's is perched on a bluff above the French Broad in the complex that houses his music theater, a motel, and a small shopping center. A glaring red sign that says simply, "Restaurant," denotes its location hidden among a thicket of trees at the bluff's pinnacle.
If there's such a thing as subtle egotism, I guess that would describe the feeling at LG's. I'd expected a garishly red, white, and blue interior color scheme, with the droning tones of the pint-sized patriot's low-brow national anthem launching a constant assault on my eardrums while I struggled to masticate a hot dog or a slice of apple pie. Instead, the experience was similar to walking into an acquaintance's pleasantly decorated home but discovering the only photographs displayed on his mantel or dresser are pictures of him and him alone. Exploring the restaurant, I would occasionally come across a group of misty photos of Lee boosting the boys' morale at a U.S.O show or an unobtrusively placed display case containing some bedazzling rhinestone and acid-washed denim ensemble, but for the most part the restaurant was open, airy, and tack-free with large expanses of bare wooden walls extending upwards to a lovely, exposed-beam ceiling.
Since what had been a beautifully clear day was drawing to a close, we had hoped to take a seat on LG's balcony and enjoy the view that stretches back across Sevierville to the mountains beyond. The host informed us, however, that he didn't think any of the servers would serve us if we sat outside. Whatever. So we took a table in the far corner of the restaurant, passing by a huge stone fireplace that serves as the enormous dining room's centerpiece.
LG's tony menu was fairly impressive—certainly a step above Pigeon Forge's ubiquitous all-you-can-eat prime rib offerings. In a paean to the piggy crowd, Lee had set out an attractive, small seafood buffet, but the menu selections ranged from Oysters Rockefeller to Chicken Provencal Campignon to Bananas Foster. More tired than hungry, we stuck with some relatively simple appetizers.
As it usually does, the tempura batter delighted with its delicate crispness, but the vegetables it encased left something to be desired. These weren't asparagus spears, not even baby asparagus spears—they were asparagus strings. But they tasted pretty good, especially when dipped into the sour cream and horseradish sauce. The same held true for the crab, Parmesan, and pesto-stuffed portobello mushrooms. They tasted sweetly pungent, but what should have been a full cap looked more like a withered slice.
Oh well. At this point, after hours in the car, I was too tired to argue. All I wanted to do was go home and sink into a big comfy chair. As I pictured myself propping my feet up, sliding the seat back, and reaching for the remote, the concept at the core of the theme restaurant phenomenon finally occurred to me.
The DuLunch family supper was fairly retrogressive in modern terms—when dinnertime arrived promptly at 6:30 every week night, we all gathered around the table together. Sometimes we laughed and talked. Sometimes we sat quietly and ate, enjoying each others' silent company. When friends came over to visit, they found the ritual strange, accustomed as they were to TV-front dining.
Theme restaurants, with their bland food offerings and multiple sources of loud, conversation-precluding distractions, are simply a big-budget production of the warmed-over television dinner.
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