House of Cards

House of Cards feels like someone built a secret society for people who take dinner way too seriously and absolutely love it that way. Dark wood, velvet shadows, whispered laughter. A room that makes you sit a little straighter, like you’re about to sign a treaty or confess a sin.

Elk tenderloin hit the table like it had something to prove. Lean, deep, unapologetic. The kind of meat that pairs best with a heavy Cabernet that doesn’t tiptoe around anything. And yes. Multiple glasses were required. It felt rude not to.

The zucchini pasta was light, clever, almost smug about how good it was. Paired with a Hocus Pocus cocktail that tasted like someone liquefied a mischievous ghost with a cannabis habit. You sip it, and suddenly the world softens at the edges.

The real kicker was the magic. Corner-table sleight of hand that messes with your sense of reality, then a full show that pulls you further into the rabbit hole. For once in Nashville, the tourists weren’t the only ones grinning like they’d just seen something impossible.

A night that felt part dinner, part séance, part cabernet-soaked fever dream. Perfect.