NICOLO
Nicolò
908 Meridian Street, Cleveland Park
This is the second chapter in what I’ve come to call the Abandoned Building Series—a creative invitation first posed by Olivia Herrick:
What if we imagined possibility into places left behind?
For me, it began with a scene. You know, the one in An Affair to Remember, where Nickie Ferrante takes Terry to his Janou’s apartment and courtyard in Villefranche-sur-Mer. It’s romantic, but not precious—a place shaped by time and affection, not design.
“What is it about this place? There is something about it that makes you want to whisper. It’s so peaceful here. It’s like another world.“
It felt like the perfect muse for the next Abandoned Building project: the McGavock House in East Nashville’s Cleveland Park. Built in the 1840s and once called Fountain Blue, the home carries a quiet thread of French influence—a limestone foundation, natural light that lands just so, and imported wallpaper brought over in 1844 by Lucinda’s husband. A nod to Fontainebleau. Lucinda McGavock became more than a name on the deed. She became the thread I followed.
Janou’s apartment is Lucinda’s in another lifetime.
One lived by the sea, the other by candlelight.
Both hosted heartbreaks, impromptu dinners, and long silences that didn’t need filling.
The Concept
A courtyard, wine shop, cheese counter, and garden bistro—tucked inside a French-Southern dream.
Guests enter through wrought iron gates into a courtyard where café tables nestle beneath the trees. Inside, shelves are lined with bottles from small producers across Provence, Corsica, and coastal Italy. There’s always something chilled and fizzy—especially pink champagne.
One of the original parlors houses the French cheese counter, gleaming with triple crème, blues, and blooming rinds. Toward the back, a small kitchen turns out garden-touched plates: socca, panisse, herbed mussels, stone fruit with herbed cream.
The menu is handwritten each night. You can stay for five minutes or five hours.
You can come alone—or bring someone you shouldn’t.
The Courtyards at Nicolò’s
The courtyards at Nicolò’s don’t feel designed - they feel discovered. Gravel paths, fig trees, and lace-covered tables seem like they’ve always been here—just waiting to be dusted off and lit by candlelight.
Wrought iron chairs sit on worn stone. Vines climb the walls like they’ve been listening in. There’s always a table slightly tucked away—meant for quiet conversations, long afternoons, or a glass of wine without hurry.
Every corner invites you to pause.
La Petite Fontaine
Named after the home’s original title, Fountain Blue, La Petite Fontaine is the heart of the house: always flowing, always full.
Guests drift in for a glass and end up staying for a story.
Wine shelves curated by feeling, not formula. A Fontainiste behind the counter who pours according to your mood, not your order. And at 4 p.m. sharp: Le Premier Verre — the first glass, poured freely until the bottle runs dry.
Here, the cheese knows your name, the wine remembers who you were last week. Here, you can write a letter you'll never send, slip it into a box, and leave a little lighter.
Think:
An old record playing at half-volume
A shopkeeper who’s maybe part matchmaker
Wine tags hand-written in fountain pen, with notes like “pairs well with heartbreak”
The counter is tiled in dusty blue or pale marble, with glass domes housing wedges of cheese
And always, a bottle of pink champagne open behind the bar
The Staff Behind the Counter : Called Fontainistes. Trained not just in wine, but in mood. They speak softly, pour slowly, and always recommend based on how you feel, not what you like.
Here, the first glass is poured before you ask.
Here, the cheese knows your name.
Here, we remember things you thought you’d forgotten.
The wine counter at Nicolo was never meant to be grand.
It was meant to be close.
A place to drift toward. To take your time. To taste before deciding.
We call it La Petite Fontaine, after the house’s old name—Fountain Blue.
A name with French roots and Southern dust.
A name that feels like it could belong to a woman. Or a memory. Or a song.
Each bottle behind the bar tells a story.
Not of tasting notes or tannins, but of harvest. Of restraint.
We choose wines like we choose music—by feel, not formula.
We’ll tell you which one reminds us of last week’s storm.
Which one tastes like regret.
Which one should never be drunk alone.
Stay as long as you like.
Lucinda’s
Behind the parlor, past the quiet, down a hallway with no name, you’ll find it: Lucinda’s. A speakeasy soaked in shadow and silk. Named for the woman who vanished without goodbye—but left everything behind.
Here, you drink like you're remembering someone. Vinyl hums. Candles flicker. Secrets stretch out across low velvet benches. The wallpaper peels and the truth softens. Every cocktail has a story, whether you want it or not.
Welcome to Lucinda’s. Drink slowly. Kiss boldly. And don’t tell them where you found the door.