One of the great joys of life is to experience a hint of perfection. I often find it in music – the wild abandon in the opening verse of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song,” the distillation of loss in Beck’s “Guess I’m Doing Fine,” the sublime strains of Arvo Part’s “Summa” for strings. I find it in art and film. Sometimes I find it in the quiet dawn in the woods, a cup of steaming coffee in hand, the air crisp but with the promise of warm sun.

Sometimes I find it in a meal.

I arrive at the Red Pony in Franklin, Tennessee with three of my colleagues, just steps ahead of the other four that would join us. It is cold outside, and we rush into the warmth of the restaurant. We are greeted and quickly lead to our table.

Leaning heavily into a modern rustic industrial design, the room is full of warm light, dark and rough hewn wood, and iron. A black tiled wall separates the dining room from the kitchen, but a large oval window gives diners a view of the action. Unobtrusive funk grooves fill the space with just enough volume to add vibrancy but not overpower conversation. The ambience could be written off as Pinterest chic, but it’s tasteful and well done enough to serve as inspiration rather than derivation.

The bar is full, and the small first floor dining area will remain busy for hours to come. We are seated at comfortably large eight top table in the middle of the room. Two and four top tables surround us, but the room never feels overly crowded.

We start with drinks. I have the Good Ol Boy, which is a perfectly balanced bourbon drink that might as well be an old fashioned but for a missing cherry. Conversation flows. Laughter bubbles. Later I will have a Black Cat, their tequila and mezcal concoction. Both drinks are delicious. Both are perfect.

One of our party orders a sweeping array of appetizers for the table: lamb chops with chimichurri, bread and butters both sweet and savory, house guacamole, and possibly other things I’m forgetting. Not realizing others are planning to get salads I go ahead and order the golden beet salad.

The lamb is nicely grilled, well seasoned, and served with the greatest chimichurri I’ve ever had. The bread is flavorful and brought to full life by the sweetened butter. The golden beet salad, complete with blood oranges, arugula, goat cheese, pistachio crisp and creamsicle vinaigrette is, without reservation, the best beat salad I’ve ever had. The salad is perfect.

We clear the appetizers, and I sit back and bask in the excellence of the meal as others tuck into their salads and soups. Before long the table is cleared again. Everyone is impressed. Everyone is happy.

The entrees arrive. A party of eight and we each ordered something different. I opted for the bacon wrapped elk meatloaf served with shitake gravy, sherry glazed carrots, Yukon potato puree, and huckleberry. It is rustic and refined at once. The combination of sweet and savory flavors is incredibly precise in its balance. It is rich. It is robust, but each flavor finds a way to shine. The textures blend beautifully. It is, in a word, perfect.

My body has been telling me that I am done for at least half of the dish, but it is too good to leave unfinished. Morning Mike will gladly pay the price for evening Mike’s indulgence.

The dishes clear and we are poised to leave but for the arrival of the dessert menu. We look to each other through a haze of satisfaction. “I will if you will.” I order the sundae. Vanilla gelato, chocolate brownies, caramel, chocolate, whipped cream.

It is perfect.

My satisfaction with this meal cannot be overstated. At every turn, on every point, it has been incredibly well done. Very few eateries can nail each moment of a meal so successfully. I will make the three hour drive from Louisville for this again without hesitation.

Post Script: I was remiss in not mentioning the service. Our server was informative, attentive, friendly, and – well, I am sure you know where I am going.