The one and only reason I insisted we pass through Louisville on our way to Nashville, was because of the food. It’s completely the fault of a certain Kentuckian cook on YouTube – a skinnier Paula Deen – who made the likes of fried cat fish and chess pie seem so appealing. With this in mind, we leave our urban homestead to head downtown for brunch. Toast on Market delivers with meat loaf sandwiches, breakfast casserole, an omelette stuffed with chorizo and of course, iced tea. Yes, we sold our souls to Obesity at Heathrow Terminal Three.
Louisville is hot. It’s also brash, quite odd, oddly quiet, oversized and did I mention hot? So very hot. On the bus to Churchill Downs racecourse a man in ripped jeans shares the stories of his incarcerated ex-girlfriend, lack of commitment and love of fast and loose women. By the time we get off the bus, the sweet talker has got a girl’s phone number and the promise of a date on Saturday. The races are as crazy as everything else. We head into town for dinner $2 richer and discover that the ‘happening’ side of town in Louisville means high school students giggling over burritos in Qdoba.
To The Table 