The Broadway Dinner Train

An Exotic Dinner Date in Nashville Style

In 1989, new motherhood had saddled me with daily surprises and heavy routines, so one afternoon, when my husband of two years launched an invitation: “Let’s go downtown for dinner tonight”, I responded in hasty agreement!

It would be a chance to see something new, interesting, or even nostalgic, since our visits to this refurbished district of Nashville nightlife were infrequent.  So, I changed outfits and beat him out the door.

A scenic drive past old schools, timeworn churches, tall condominiums, and state buildings took us to the narrow streets of old Nashville which ran beside a peaceful stretch of the Cumberland River.  Along its banks were aged brick warehouses with date markers from the 1800s, telling of a time when modest steamships delivered cargo and supplies to a river community of merchants and local trading posts. 

A quick car park and walk up the sidewalk showed reflections of antique light floating across gentle waters, and dinner conversation voicing itself from old warehouses reclaimed as restaurant spaces. 

My husband took a brisk lead, and to my curious question as to where we were going, he said, “oh there’s a restaurant down here overlooking the river”. 

I was skeptical.  As a Nashville native, I knew of no restaurant on the route he was taking. 

The sidewalk dimmed as we left the street, until we reached Riverfront Park, where streetlights and spray of colored flags marked its focal point at the dead end of Nashville’s lower Broad. 

I watched him approach a few shiny, silver-toned, retro rail cars, lined up on the riverbank, sitting on a well-worn track.  I might have noticed this curiosity before, in the far corner of the park, but never took much interest.  Up close though, it was a source of intrigue.  A small sign posted to my right, identified: The Broadway Dinner Train.

Well, a night on a dinner train. Could this be the Orient Express, of Nashville, Tennessee?  I was ready. Why shouldn’t this antique rail car fulfill the need for an exotic getaway within my hometown, the birthplace of whining, hard-luck music?  

We boarded with a smile, to begin our romantic dinner journey into the sunset of 1980s downtown Nashville. 

The first step was foreboding.  It was a darn good thing I was only twenty-three years old, thin as a rail, and had a good grip.  The fold out steps were about as unsteady as everything else we were about to experience. 

We snaked down a narrow path between café tables set for four, lined on each side of the car, and found our seats alongside fellow passengers.  A carload of nervous laughter ensued when the dinner-train lurched forward, and servers began moving in time with the car’s rocking motion and tune of squeaky wheels.  Passenger visits to the bathroom showed that guests were nowhere near as skilled as the staff in these practiced movements.  An early advisory confirmed: “Please don’t place dishes too close to the edge of the table.” 

Our meal was served against the view of a darkened outdoor landscape, with one passing scene best described as an artistic rendering of Nashville’s garbage burning facility; the next vision was a lengthy lot of junked cars. Both did little to improve our appetite. In fact, I’ll add insult to injury by saying the food was so less than memorable, I could hardly recall it now if I tried. 

The night closed with the realization that Nashville’s Broadway Dinner Train was no match for the smooth elegant impressions of the Orient Express. 

I should have known that it would be more like the hard luck survival songs this city is known for.