A Southern tale, better than naked art

My buddy John Martin Ramsey says that I go to the Bistro at the Bijou because I like nude art. If you've been there, you know what he means.

Funny line, yes. But, not really. I like the food. And, it's usually quiet on a sleepy summer weekday afternoon.

Thus it was today, when I met Fountain City historian Dr. Jim Tumblin there just after 5. I was nursing a cold beverage when Dr. Jim arrived. He spent the day downtown researching a column.

Dr. Jim seemed to enjoy his gumbo. I ordered an excellent fish sandwich (I think it was halibut). We laughed about local politics. Jim told me about a terrible rock band he went to hear last week. "They didn't rock, so I went home," says our favorite octogenarian.

It was a nice way to escape the heat. Boy, has that heat shown its face early this year, as if August has morphed into June, two months too soon.

Could have stayed in the Bistro for another hour or two, but I came downtown to hear Inman Majors read from his excellent new novel, "The Millionaires." It is a fine book.

Majors didn't say much about the novel's obvious connection to the Jake and C.H. Butcher banking scandal of the early 1980s. And, although it is certainly there, that Butcher stuff isn't the entire picture. From what he said tonight, Majors did what any writer worth a damn does -- scribbles what he knows. I suspect that has as much to do with his characters as anybody associated with that colorful clan from Maynardville.

But, those who remember the Butcher brothers, and the World's Fair, and the Knoxville of what seems like a bygone era will find much here that is familiar. At its best, though, "The Millionaires" is less about plot and more about character, piercing into sibling rivalries and ties running deeper than blood. Majors said tonight he has always been fascinated by his parents' generation -- the Southerners who made the leap from the family farm to the suburbs.

Others have criticized his technique -- not using apostrophes, writing some chapters as a screenplay -- but all of that is what makes this novel vibrant. Ignore the naysayers.

As all good storytellers should do, Majors keeps his audience glued to his story (I once stayed up reading until 7:30 a.m.). The two brothers at the center of the tale -- bankers Roland and J.T. Cole -- are what they are, but I found myself drawn to Roland's wife Libby, and to the central character of the book, political operative Mike Teague.

Libby handled her life with a dignified, understated grace. She knew about Roland's affairs. She knew about going home alone. She knew about unfulfilled dreams. The story ends before we know, but I suspect Libby endured her husband's fall from grace without so much as a public flinch. I thought about Libby long after I turned out the light.

Teague is the empathetic character in this tragic tale. Teague is a guy doing a job, fighting to keep his optimism, struggling to do what he thinks is right. In the end he is a victim of someone else's ambition run amok. And, yet, he lands on his feet.

I don't want to do the usual boring synopsis and I don't want to tell you much else. If you like good writing -- no, scratch that -- if you like GREAT writing, go buy this book. If you grew up in Knoxville, Inman's tale is a must read. If you are a political junkie, and like Southern tales of power and corruption and complexity, run don't walk to your local store or to Amazon.com.

The book is called "The Millionaires" and the author is Inman Majors.

Be forewarned -- it will keep you up nights. It might even make you do something really crazy. Like leave a cool bistro on a hot summer afternoon.

So much for that naked art.

Big night at the Bijou Bistro

Found a new (to me) restaurant last night. I'll definitely be back, I can promise you.

Fountain City guy and renowned historian Dr. Jim Tumblin met me downtown after work last night. We were headed to the history center to hear a lecture by Charles Shields, author of the first biography on "To Kill A Mockingbird" author Harper Lee. The night was part of the month-long Big Read, sponsored by the Knox County Public Library and the YWCA.

Jim suggested we meet at the Bijou Bistro, a charming little spot beside Knoxville's famous old theater on Gay Street. I had seen the place before on my way to a KSO Chamber Orchestra concert last spring. But I had no idea what a treat I was in for.

It took us awhile to get served -- the hard-workin' server was covering a lot of territory -- but it was well worth the wait. The salads are out of this world. I don't know what they make the crutons out of, but I've been craving them for half a day now, trying to think of an excuse to go back for more.

When the server came back, I said between bites, "This is the best salad I've ever had in my life."

Laughing, she said, "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it."

Couldn't reply. Too busy eating.

Jim ordered the mahi-mahi. I had pork cooked in dijonnaise mustard with rice and veggies. Delicious just isn't the word.

I washed my dinner down with water and a Sierra Nevada. Jim did the same, only his beer (I didn't catch the name) came in a goblet.

No time for dessert; we had to hoof it down to the history center in time for the lecture, which was a treat, by the way. Shields held our attention for more than an hour. We learned that, yes, Nelle Harper Lee (she dropped the first name because people began mispronouncing it) did in fact write "To Kill A Mockingbird," and, no, her famous friend Truman Capote did not help.

(But he did apparently steal phrases from Nelle Harper's notes when writing his 1965 masterpiece "In Cold Blood." Nelle, who served as a research assistant, apparently had more to do with Truman's successful "nonfiction novel" than was previously known.)

I slipped into the Knoxville night with a full belly and literary nuggets dancing in my head. As usual, I hated to see the sun set on the big night.

Next time you find yourself downtown at lunch or supper (or Sunday brunch), duck into the Bijou Bistro. Ten bucks and a copy of "To Kill A Mockingbird" says you won't be disappointed.