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).

the chipotle rubbed chicken and swiss style enchiladas

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.

My fork sank easily into the hung of meet and by pulling lightly I freed my first bite. Tender and flavorful. I immediately sank my fork in for a second bite, this time I surfed the pot and came back with beans and rice and a thin slice of avocado accenting my fork. The beans would be delicious on their own, even the rice extended itself with earthy flavors that complemented the meat.

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!