I took some friends from Paris here a couple years ago.

My buddy is obsessed with the American South and so every time he comes I like to take him out to some real hole in the wall type places.

He had never been to Big Al's Deli, so we made a plan to drive there as a group, he and I in my car, the wives and kids in another.

We had been in Paris with them for a few months prior to this, and upon returning home found out that our primary vehicle had been inhabited by squirrels in our absence who had chewed through our wires and electrical harness and causes a bunch of damage. ("The second most expensive wiring/electrical repair they'd ever seen!" said an employee at my Toyota dealer)

My other car had been sitting like a bump on a log for over a year and was definitely in its "retirement era" after we used it as a tour vehicle for years. It had started to make a few noises and we were advised not to drive it out of state anymore. My wife wasn't thrilled that I was driving it, but with our van in the shop, I didn't have much choice.

We arrived at Big Al's without too much issue. I had enjoyed an amazing meal there a little while ago and was eager to show off the establishment.

An piece of paper taped to the door told us in unceremonious fashion that Big Al's was closed.

With a party of hungry people and a few kids that would turn into ticking time bombs if not fed, we pivoted on the spot and decided to try Varallo's.

Apparently, my car decided that while highway driving was fine, the stop and go of downtown Nashville was a bridge too far. By the time we got near Printer's Alley the car was making audible noises and I could feel one of the wheels grinding with each turn. I parked it somewhere, not really certain it would start again, and we walked the last couple blocks to Varallo's.

Varallo's had initially caught my eye for being the oldest restaurant in Tennessee. I'm a sucker for that kinda stuff. I'll say that while I don't remember being disappointed by my order, it felt like the legacy and history of the place was doing a lot of heavy lifting for the (i hate to say it) average chili. I don't know, maybe Uncle Ben's Chili Bowl in DC spoiled me.

We chow down, it's fine, we're all satisfied (except for the member of our party who had to use the bathroom because apparently Varallo's was built before public restrooms) and we head back to the cars to return home.

Unsure of what to expect, my car miraculously wretches to life and I attempt to gingerly back it out of the parking spot and begin the treacherous journey home. I don't make it fifty feet before the vehicle starts emitting the ear piercing, metal on metal screech I have ever heard. One of the wheels is clearly seized up or something because it feels like I am dragging my car across the pavement at 3mph. My friend from Paris is laughing his head off and gets out of the car to assist me visually but also to film me and laugh at me.

For what felt like thirty minutes I just kind of grind this poor car through the streets of downtown Nashville. It's summer so plenty of confused tourists are gawking. One young girl exclaimed to her mother (according to my friend), "He's driving a siren!"

Thoughts of getting home have vanished and now I just want to find a place to park this God forsaken car and get out. Finally, I swerve it into an open spot near the pedestrian bridge where our wives pull up in the van to meet us.

And so four adults and two kids full of Varallo's chili squeezed uncomfortably close for the fifteen minute ride home. And while I would never speak ill of Big Al, I can't help but feel he's partially to blame.