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Gonzo Report: Kitsch, community, and calamity at Nate's Garden Grill
Tinkersmith brings a little darkness into a sunny lunch hour
“Fuck kale.” I declare to Cari Veach, the hostess at Nate’s Garden Grill on Euclid in San Diego. It seems that I’ve been unable or unwilling to let go of my grudge toward this “superfood” ever since the McDonald’s in Anaheim offered it in a laughable attempt to appear more health conscious. They didn’t fool me then, and I’m not going to start eating that shit now — on principle. Though the offending vegetable pervades a good chunk of the menu here at Nate's, I’m able to avoid it by ordering a burger to munch on while I enjoy some folk tunes from Tinkersmith. It’s not surprising that the creepy cabbage is a staple ingredient: it’s easy to grow, and Nate’s does as much of its own growing as possible — in the immediate area. And all the other menu fare is locally sourced.
What’s surprising is the grill's location: it's an area that brings residential and commercial buildings to mind. The grill is tucked away in a parking lot alongside Nate’s nursery, which also supplies the place with eggs. Inside, the joint reminds me of cross-country road trips with stops at places like Stuckey’s, places where kitsch is king. I decide that a sign saying that hippies must enter through the side door doesn’t apply to me, because despite the hair, I’m far too angry to be a hippie. Hostess Veach doesn’t know if the Willie Nelson photo I ask about bears a real signature, if someone here met the man, or any other details — because every time she comes to work, there’s something different on display, and she can’t keep track.
The lunch crowd is picking up and Tinkersmith is set to go on, so I content myself with our brief conversation before the rush. It was the Nine Inch Nails shirt she wears that sparked the chin wag; we talked about shows we'd seen, and she revealed her passion for photography. She's even had her stuff published a few times. It’s interesting how our approaches to covering live music differ. I engage with strangers, and she’s essentially hidden behind her camera, disengaged, distanced. She said it helped with her experience of autism in crowded situations, and I can see where that would work. I can also see the hyper-focus in her photos when I scope out her Instagram: the bands she’s covered crediting her with live shots that make me feel like I’m there.
My order number is 99, which may seem high, but fuck it, it was Gretzky’s number, and my food arrives within 15 minutes. Time enough to locate a table in front of the stage for soundcheck while some kids do-si-do, arms interlocked. The concept of dancing flies out the window metaphorically as the younger one flies across the floor literally, their speeding having created a centrifuge like the death trap merry-go-rounds in old playgrounds. Of course, the older one lets go. It’s in the older sibling's job description somewhere. But no one gets hurt.
My burger would’ve been delicious without the bacon, but bacon makes everything better. Nothing here is fried, just grilled and fresh. A dog is staring at me, telling me with his eyes that he’ll be my friend for just one bite. Tempting, but I’m not sharing. Especially when I can get some pats in without paying the victuals tax by asking his owner, Jeff. Lots of Jeffs here today, but I can tell them apart because Jeff the dog owner isn’t on stage and Jeff the guitarist, doesn’t have a dog named Groot with him. Jeff, Groot’s human, recently moved to the area from North County and it’s his first time at Nate’s. He indicates it won’t be his last. Zac and Sid, two younger men, are visiting him from Australia, and me and Sid bond in the smoking area over post-apocalyptic films and nicotine.
Onstage, Tinkersmith (Jeff Smith on guitar, Sally Tinker on mandolin, and guest violinist Dan Steinman) have been playing their folk-rock offerings for half a set when the words start to get through to me: the tale of a boy drowned in the corduroy he was wearing, pushing his barrow, trying to get his loved one something nice, continuing the mission after death. Folk is often dark, but it’s the way this song snaps me out of my trance of dogs and kitsch and bacon burgers that leaves a mark on my psyche. Maybe it’s the discordance between the beautiful afternoon, the melodic instruments, and the tragic tale hitting when you least expect it. Much like Nate’s on Euclid: not where I would expect, and requiring a bit of effort to access, but impressive and rewarding.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Kitsch, community, and calamity at Nate's Garden Grill
Tinkersmith brings a little darkness into a sunny lunch hour
Gonzo Report: Kitsch, community, and calamity at Nate's Garden Grill
Tinkersmith brings a little darkness into a sunny lunch hour
“Fuck kale.” I declare to Cari Veach, the hostess at Nate’s Garden Grill on Euclid in San Diego. It seems that I’ve been unable or unwilling to let go of my grudge toward this “superfood” ever since the McDonald’s in Anaheim offered it in a laughable attempt to appear more health conscious. They didn’t fool me then, and I’m not going to start eating that shit now — on principle. Though the offending vegetable pervades a good chunk of the menu here at Nate's, I’m able to avoid it by ordering a burger to munch on while I enjoy some folk tunes from Tinkersmith. It’s not surprising that the creepy cabbage is a staple ingredient: it’s easy to grow, and Nate’s does as much of its own growing as possible — in the immediate area. And all the other menu fare is locally sourced.
What’s surprising is the grill's location: it's an area that brings residential and commercial buildings to mind. The grill is tucked away in a parking lot alongside Nate’s nursery, which also supplies the place with eggs. Inside, the joint reminds me of cross-country road trips with stops at places like Stuckey’s, places where kitsch is king. I decide that a sign saying that hippies must enter through the side door doesn’t apply to me, because despite the hair, I’m far too angry to be a hippie. Hostess Veach doesn’t know if the Willie Nelson photo I ask about bears a real signature, if someone here met the man, or any other details — because every time she comes to work, there’s something different on display, and she can’t keep track.
The lunch crowd is picking up and Tinkersmith is set to go on, so I content myself with our brief conversation before the rush. It was the Nine Inch Nails shirt she wears that sparked the chin wag; we talked about shows we'd seen, and she revealed her passion for photography. She's even had her stuff published a few times. It’s interesting how our approaches to covering live music differ. I engage with strangers, and she’s essentially hidden behind her camera, disengaged, distanced. She said it helped with her experience of autism in crowded situations, and I can see where that would work. I can also see the hyper-focus in her photos when I scope out her Instagram: the bands she’s covered crediting her with live shots that make me feel like I’m there.
My order number is 99, which may seem high, but fuck it, it was Gretzky’s number, and my food arrives within 15 minutes. Time enough to locate a table in front of the stage for soundcheck while some kids do-si-do, arms interlocked. The concept of dancing flies out the window metaphorically as the younger one flies across the floor literally, their speeding having created a centrifuge like the death trap merry-go-rounds in old playgrounds. Of course, the older one lets go. It’s in the older sibling's job description somewhere. But no one gets hurt.
My burger would’ve been delicious without the bacon, but bacon makes everything better. Nothing here is fried, just grilled and fresh. A dog is staring at me, telling me with his eyes that he’ll be my friend for just one bite. Tempting, but I’m not sharing. Especially when I can get some pats in without paying the victuals tax by asking his owner, Jeff. Lots of Jeffs here today, but I can tell them apart because Jeff the dog owner isn’t on stage and Jeff the guitarist, doesn’t have a dog named Groot with him. Jeff, Groot’s human, recently moved to the area from North County and it’s his first time at Nate’s. He indicates it won’t be his last. Zac and Sid, two younger men, are visiting him from Australia, and me and Sid bond in the smoking area over post-apocalyptic films and nicotine.
Onstage, Tinkersmith (Jeff Smith on guitar, Sally Tinker on mandolin, and guest violinist Dan Steinman) have been playing their folk-rock offerings for half a set when the words start to get through to me: the tale of a boy drowned in the corduroy he was wearing, pushing his barrow, trying to get his loved one something nice, continuing the mission after death. Folk is often dark, but it’s the way this song snaps me out of my trance of dogs and kitsch and bacon burgers that leaves a mark on my psyche. Maybe it’s the discordance between the beautiful afternoon, the melodic instruments, and the tragic tale hitting when you least expect it. Much like Nate’s on Euclid: not where I would expect, and requiring a bit of effort to access, but impressive and rewarding.
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