Worth waking up for
Karma has refused to dine at Nido with me since she promised
her first time to another friend. I’ve been full of over the top histrionics every
time it comes up because we have been eating buddies for years AND she has
refused to let me dine at Mockingbird without her (four plus months later and
we still haven’t made it there).
Ha ha to her…I ate there Saturday and she’s still waiting. Happy
times to us both, I’ll be back.
This weekend I found myself sleeping…a lot. Exhaustion is
only the tip of whatever I was feeling and so I left my bed only when necessity
dictated. Mbale and I made plans to hang out doing some undisclosed thing at
some unspecified time. I’m sure he won’t make that mistake again as I didn’t
manage to send an email in his direction until after 2pm. And then it was to
set dinner plans for 7pm.
Dinner plans weren’t enough. Mbale has been stateside for
less than a year and has cultivated no love of the food he eats here. Of course,
he admits that he mostly orders things that sound like what he’s accustomed to
(and missing) from home. I have taken it upon myself to be his food guide for however
much longer he remains. And so the second time we hung it was Greek food…he
nodded approvingly as he ate his mousaka and smiled as he tasted a bite of
gyro. But I had to up the stakes…all the more so because the only food I’d had Saturday
were the most delicious waffles (the recipe has one extra step then I’m accustomed to but it makes all the difference in the world).
It was a risky move; I hadn’t vetted Nido. But Mbale’s most
primal displeasure with American food is the dearth of meat…sizable portions
of meat that look and chew like meat. Pancetta on toast points don’t count as
meat. And despite his good nature and willingness to eat whatever in the name
of pleasantries, I want him to like what he’s eating. I get joy in finding the
food joy of other people.
I glanced through the Nido’s menu and saw enough meat
options and he was waiting there when I arrived.
His eyes settled on braised beef, and while his attention
wavered for a moment on the pork chop, it returned and settled on the ollita de
pobre. We haggled back and forth about the other main dish we would share and
the pollo sabado con enchilads suizas won out. I selected the starter –
something about the mix of chorizo and salsa verde and soft boiled egg over
masa cake caught and held my attention and so we ordered the huarache distrito
federal.
The huarache came out first, elements of the dish piled
precariously high, sliding down at the edges. Crumbles of chorizo grazed thin
rails of salsa verde – fresh on the tongue- running parallel on both sides of
the narrow plate. A bevvy of colors, the white and yellow from the egg and accented
by starbursts of queso frescas against the black beans and cilantro, slightly blackened
edges of the masa rounds peeked through. I examined the entire dish for a
moment before digging into it all without concern for maintaining the integrity
or beauty of the dish. It was delightful. Flavors and textures vied for
attention but melded into a satisfying medley.
Our pot of beef came out next. I wasn’t particularly thrilled
when we’d ordered. Big deal, slow cooked beef like my mom did way back when. There
was nothing exciting in that. It arrived in a metal pot – like you might use
camping- complete with lid. I peered inside and there sat a sizable portion of
beef nestled amidst pinto beans, rice, a fresh tomato salsa, and a fan of unadorned avocado.
I always forget to take a picture BEFORE I begin eating. |
Around the third bite, the chicken arrived. Rubbed with
chipotle and slightly blackened, it was moist and tender under my fork. The smokiness
and a hint of heat danced on my tongue but not in a bragging way- maybe just a
humble brag, after all it was delicious and why pretend otherwise. The enchiladas
were the least of all the dishes. Almost no filling and little more than corn
tortillas with a spritz of salsa verde.
We scraped all of our plates and respective bowls clean,
dismissing the busboy who tried to clear our table before the last bites were
swallowed and talked about. Dessert was the only remaining question.
I left it up to Mbale…kind of. The waiter came around a few
times to ask us what we wanted. We distracted ourselves discussing career
options and Nido’s eclectic décor: a Mexican tiled wall, one with what appeared
to be depictions of Aztec gods, succulents reaching for sunlight at the
entrance, a quaint bar (stocked to the hilt with mescal if the menu is to be
believed) tucked in the back, simple lights strung simply across the small restaurant,
and huge metal sheets hung on the back wall.
Finally we settled on churros, I’d been discussing them
earlier in the meal. They arrived fresh from the grease and barely dusted with
sugar. They were fine; fried dough seldom goes wrong. The chocolate dipping
sauce was too chocolaty…I know, chocolate lovers don’t believe such a thing exists…and
the churros themselves were mostly forgettable. Don’t get me wrong, we ate
every last one. But these were not Bocanova’s churros- I will not dream of
them.
I hate that our meal ended there. I hate that ok was the
last memory my tongue has of the place because ok was not the theme of the
meal. The appetizer and both main dishes were delicious and brought a huge
smile to Mbale’s face- a triumph of palate!
I will be back to Nido. I will order mescal and try the
ceviche. I will eat a Mexican brunch and swig horchata…because with such an
auspicious first time how could I not?!
This is what satisfaction looks like! |
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