Chef Zac Powell Tolleson is part of a growing group of self-taught Southern cooks. He’s more interested in flavor than flair, more connected to the land than to labels. We spent an evening with him at Bloomsbury Farms, just outside Nashville, where he cooked a dinner using only what was in season and available that week. Driving down the gravel road, we pulled up to the farmhouse where Zac was already in motion. A towel slung over his shoulder, bison steaks hitting the grill. He greeted us with a grin and a laugh. "Never cooked bison before," he said. "Hope it turns out alright."
Zac isn’t a classically trained chef, but what he’s built is thoughtful and distinct. His cooking is shaped by local ingredients, seasonal restraint, and a belief in doing things the slow way instead of the easy way. Even in college, Zac avoided big grocery stores. He tells me about the first time he tried a real, local tomato. "I thought I didn’t like tomatoes," he says. "But the tomato wasn’t the problem. It was how the tomato was produced." He talks about how long they sit on cold shelves, how that changes everything about their flavor and texture.
Now, local produce is the foundation of everything he makes. "If none of my purveyors have an ingredient, I’m not going to cook with it," he tells me. "I like putting limits on myself. It keeps things interesting." There’s beauty in that simplicity. It comes through in the way he speaks and the way he cooks. That night, he made a panzanella salad dressed with housemade fennel oil. It looked like summer on a plate. The mushrooms and bison were rubbed with a tomato powder he made by straining fresh tomatoes through cheesecloth, reducing the puree, and drying it into powder. He finished the dish with a watermelon molasses and a side of peppers he’d cut and pickled in bourbon vinegar. Everything on the table came with a story, but none of it felt overthought. It just felt like it belonged.
Zac’s love for wine came alongside food. He talks about it with warmth and curiosity. His favorite region is Beaujolais, known for its light, fruity reds made from Gamay grapes. "It used to be seen as cheap wine," he says. "Something you’d mix." What draws him in now is how a few winemakers over the last thirty or forty years chose to take it seriously. They made something expressive out of something once overlooked. "That feels rebellious," he says. He leans toward natural wine. "It allows for small mistakes," he explains. "It’s not perfect. It’s not uniform. We’re going to let the wine be wine." Natural wine, he says, tells the story of the land. It changes every year. He likes that. It feels honest.
Before moving to Nashville, Zac and his wife started baking in Abilene, Texas. Long nights, early mornings, pulling loaves from the oven with just a few hours of sleep. They worked with whatever was fresh and available. That instinct to do things by hand never left. He talks about it now while holding his nine-month-old daughter, bouncing her gently as he speaks. "I love slowing down," he says. "Learning how to do things yourself. Not outsourcing everything.".
Zac recently left the restaurant world to cook on his own terms. He dreams of hosting more dinners like this one. Small, seasonal meals shared with people who care about what’s on the plate and where it came from. He wants more time with his kids. More time to think. More space to cook with care. Zac’s cooking doesn’t shout. It doesn’t try to be trendy. It speaks quietly and clearly. It says this is where we are. This is what the land gave us. And this is what we’re going to eat.
Buy Zac a glass of red and tell him Willie sent ya.