Husk Nashville

Dinner at Husk feels like stepping into a conversation between the old South and something entirely its own. The room hums with quiet confidence—brick, wood, and warm light setting the tone for a meal that’s more meditation than performance. Every dish that lands on the table feels deliberate, grounded, and deeply personal—Southern ingredients reframed through a lens of craft and restraint.

The Bear Creek beef tartare was a revelation. Savoy cabbage added crunch and bitterness, chili brought a slow-building heat, and burnt garlic tied it all together with a smoky depth that lingered just long enough. Oregano gave it lift, an herbal brightness that made the dish feel alive.

Next came the roasted delicata squash, a study in contrast—miso caramel dripping into the crevices, pecans adding crunch, and a rich layer of Sequatchie Cove Coppinger cheese melting into the sweetness. It was earthy, nutty, and almost dessert-like, if dessert were made by someone who still wanted you to think about the soil it came from.

The farro—tossed with butternut squash, sweet potato, and pepitas—was humble but powerful. Every bite felt like autumn translated into flavor: hearty, slightly sweet, anchored in texture. A dish that doesn’t try to impress but ends up doing it anyway.

The pimento cheese came next, reimagined with a delicate pie crust, cucumber, sweet and sour onion, and a sprinkle of peanut. It was Southern hospitality re-engineered—familiar but elevated, nostalgic but fresh. A love letter to the appetizer everyone thinks they know.

Finally, the Bear Creek heritage pork. Perfectly cooked, impossibly tender, paired with golden beets, kale, salsa macha, and peanut. It hit every note—smoke, sweetness, spice, crunch. The kind of main course that silences the table for a moment, because no one wants to interrupt what’s happening on their plate.

Paired with a glass of Honey Mead Basic Batch to start—floral, easy, a soft prelude—and then Angel Oak Syrah and aged Malbec, both deep and grounding, the meal unfolded like a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Husk doesn’t chase trends. It listens—to the ingredients, to the seasons, to the stories behind every bite. And in that listening, it finds something rare: food that feels honest.