Peter Green
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Last Rights
Stranded in the executive lounge, we took care of a few things. Said things included using the internet access there to cancel hotel and car reservations, contact our people in Bogota, and have a few beers.
Not necessarily in that order of priority.
With those matters in hand, we found our way back through security, had immigration adjust our visa pages in our passports, and updated the customs declarations (an important matter).
We then spent about three hours hanging around waiting on American Airlines to get their act together for the next day.
Not that I’d blame the staff in Bogota. The problems were all on the Miami side. Actually, I felt sorry for Eric and the others behind the counter, as they were having to cope with a horde of irate passengers amidst the thundering din of jackhammers that were taking the airport apart in the name of renovations.
I’ve had better moments in my life.
Finally, most of our problems were resolved. Our local people had arrived, and most of us moved to the departures’ parking lot, while one of the fellows stayed on to negotiate our hotels. We intended to return to the Radisson, although we were asking about to see if they had rooms at Andre’s.
In the parking lot we had the opportunity to observe the triumphant return of the ladies’ football (soccer) team. They’d won the championship, and were being welcomed back with fans, a band, and newscasters galore. The captain and the coach were caught up in interviews, while the team leaned from their bus’ windows to talk with their friends and admirers.
That put the smile back on my face.
We spent about an hour out in the parking lot, and, as it became apparent that the airline could only operate at a certain speed, we shuttled back into the pre-immigration area to clear out the supplies of cold beer.
Might as well put the time to good use.
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Finally we were back at the Radisson and checked into our rooms. We had spent some five hours of our lives at the airport. The great pity was that this was time we could have spent here in Bogota. I’d received my wish for a day’s reprieve, but much of that had gone to waste (the morning, of course, excepted).
Still, we had the night. “Bogota and the Night” would make a great title, but I believe Pico Iyer has used something far to similar to this already.
For dinner poor Lina had interrupted her family life (“I didn’t believe you weren’t on that plane”) and taken us under her wing again. She had been at the hotel for hours waiting for us, and her patience is that of a saint (I was still in the doghouse, though, from this morning’s debacle). She asked us if we had any preferences for dinner, and we immediately chimed up “Andre’s!”, which caused some alarm, but then we laughed to put her at ease, and left the choice to her.
We headed back South into town to Club Columbia. This was a good choice from my view, as the restaurant – sponsored by the brewery and in conjunction with the famed Harry Sasson that we spoke of earlier - was committed to preserving the traditions of Columbian cuisine.
We drove past the sight of a fire that had occurred earlier in the day. It had gutted a mall in the better part of town, but was more of note for the picture in El Tiempo (www.eltiempo.com - I’ve added it to my regular reading now) of the beautiful people not even looking up from their lattes on the patio as the fire burned. It was a mark of the people that, if it was not a bomb, then it wasn’t worth worrying about too much.
As it said in the menu, this was a tribute to the women who have, for generations, carried on the culinary traditions of Columbia. It was also a tribute to the Columbian diaspora, who continue to search for their native ingredients, where ever they may find themselves.
Mind you, the setting was far from “traditional”. The rooms were gorgeously adorned with stylish motifs, lots of glass, and deep, dark brown wood. There were two dining rooms separated by a covered patio (it does rain a lot here), and a very interesting looking bar tucked off to one side.
On the other hand, the brick wood burning ovens were beautiful examples of how Columbians cooked.
We started off with some plantain chips, hard crispy, and taken with a couple of sauces.
The chicharoncicos weren’t crackling hard as they had been at Andre’s, at least not on all sides. These yielded up juicy bits of fatty pork from the underside of the skin. A twist of lime, a bit of the omni-present arepa, and I was feeling much more human.
I’d read of the ajiaco. This is one of the national dishes of Columbia, and the ajiaco santaereno is the typical dish of Bogota (the city used to be called Santa Fe de Bogota until rechristened as just “Bogota”).
It’s basically a chicken soup, but one that’s been way starched up with the papa criollas (that break up easily) and then enhanced with the other potato variants. It has to have corn, and is served with cream and capers.
I really like capers.
Lots of strands of shredded chicken, and that consistency that you get in a good Korean or Japanese curry, the potato starch just sticking to your insides. Once the cream went in, the fat level rose appreciably, and the capers lightened things, giving that well-appreciated tang to cut through the thickness.
We had some of the yuca (casava) to nibble on, the plantain chips having disappeared early on.
And the empanaditas de Pipian were a treat. These were tiny little things, crispy fried to the point where they almost evaporated in your mouth. There’s at least one chain in Bogota that makes these particular items especially well, and that just gives me another reason to return.
The main course for me was the pork. Unfortunately, this came out a bit on the dry side for my taste. I suppose I’ve gotten too used to pork being done on the bloody side now.
Still, it filled the gap in my stomach, and made good company for more of the little potatoes.
The steak one of my compatriots was having looked the better choice. Just on the bloody side, and benefitting from a finish of butter.
The service here was surprisingly diffident. This was the only case where I had been anything less than charmed by the Columbian waitstaff, and it seemed oddly out of place. Why this should be here, I don’t know, but Lina noticed it as well.
However, I had also chosen the coconut rice, and this I enjoyed. A drier rice, more like wild rice in texture, and mingled in with raisins and the scent of coconut milk.
And Lina had ordered a beautifully stew of cheese and meat, which I took a guilty bite of.
In addition to Harry Sasson, Lina also spoke of having taken cooking classes from a Maria Arriegas. She doesn’t have a restaurant here, but consults and runs some classes. Given – I’m told - that she’d worked for Ferran Adria in the past, she’d be an interesting person to meet when I can get back here next.
For dessert, I went with the tradtional fried cheese –with melado, a sugar cane syrup. This came sizzling to the table. It was a little heavy for a dessert, but I enjoyed it well enough.
The others were having a selection of ice creams – feijoa, strawberry, and Columbian blackberry, which one of our crowd identified as closer to loganberry. The ice cream was good, particularly the feijoa, but suffered from being so hard that it had to be mined.
And one of us ordered the strawberries and cream. No particular reason, other than it’s good.
One of the things I hadn’t done was get to Desayunados de 42. I’d asked, but had been told that it was more of a hangover joint for breakfast for the very young club set. But they specialized in Santandereano cuisine, which had sounded interesting.
However, I hadn’t missed much. Lina was very familiar with the highlight of this cuisine, the hornigas culonas – or “big ass ants” – as they’re called. She described them as crunchy on the outside, and slimy on the inside. But they’re also a seasonal delicacy, and now waasn’t the season.
Next time.
Dinner wrapped up quietly. The day had taken a certain toll upon all of us, and we were actually looking forward to a good night’s sleep. We made our way out past the fruits on display, took one quick look-in on the bar, and then headed for bed.
It was a good drive back, as we dropped Lina at her home first, and this afforded us a back street drive to the hotel, cruising past bars and clubs near the university that were overflowing with the youth of Bogota.
It was tempting to ask to stop in for a quick drink at one of them (or more) but then I remembered the morning to come (and the mourning just past) and common sense won out over my spirit of exploration.
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Peter! That bar/restaurant/dance floor looks incredible! I love reading what you write.
You're making me blush.
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Wishes Do Come True
The airport went as airports do. We lined up for what seemed ages (but thankfully we weren’t traveling economy), answered the security questions (“Are you carrying any liquids, gels, drugs, or weapons?” “My friend has a razor sharp wit. Does that count?”), and arrived at the desk to find that our plane would be “delayed” by some three hours.
This was a disappointment, as it was time we could have spent on lunch in town. But, with US carriers you have to expect these little surprises. It would just mean time in the lounge to catch up on writing.
We cleared immigration, and then stopped off to use up our meal voucher, hunger beginning to gnaw at us.
Our choice was Kokariko (I should double check the spelling of that), a fast line-up-and-eat place against the windows.
At this point we missed our handlers. The menu was easy enough, but the extras were impossible for us to make sense of. I just smiled, and when the lady at the counter reached into the drawer and pulled out something pretty rude looking, I just smiled and said “si”.
I did have the presence of mind to spot the fresh juice, however, and ordered a glass of that to help my suffering hydration levels.
We screwed up. We ordered what turned out to be the chicken breast, without skin. The real treat (we learned later) was to order the rotisserie chicken in the back, which is marinated just right, and eaten with gusto and plastic gloves.
The rude looking item that the server had waved in my direction turned out to be the makings of an aborrajado, a deep fried plantain stuffed with cheese. I did my level best to enjoy it, but the deprivations of the night before were catching up with me, and I was most comfortable with the cole slaw (with kernels of corn) and the fries.
One of the guys had lucked out and received a platter of the little potatoes, and so I helped myself to these, as well.
And another had ordered the cutlet, which, with it’s layer of deep fried crust, looked more like something I could cope with at this point.
Lunch out of the way, and now feeling somewhat more human we did our last bit of shopping (what’s another couple of kilos of coffee?), braced the last level of security (“shoes off, please, and computers in the tray”), and checked into the executive lounge.
“Oh, sir, I am sorry, but the flight has just been cancelled. You’ll need to make arrangements to travel on another flight.”
Be careful what you wish for.
Next: Arrangements
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February 1 – Leaving Bogota?
Light.
There was light in the room.
That seemed rather odd, as my wake up call was for 6 a.m., when it would have still been dark.
After all, I did have to be checked out by 8:00 a.m.
I checked the clock.
8:09
I checked the phone.
It was tossed in one direction, and the handset in another. Bits of clothing were distributed stochastically about the room.
This was not good.
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Moments after I’d replaced the handset, the phone rang. It was the rest of the group, still waiting for me in the lobby. This was my last call.
I begged 15 minutes, threw my belongings into my suitcase (luckily already partially packed), hosed myself down, dressed, and raced to the lobby, hangdogged and hungover.
I know when I’m in trouble.
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We were doing a short city tour before leaving for the airport and our flight to Houston via Miami.
I hadn’t wanted to miss this. We’d been spending all of our daylight time working out of the hotel, and our view of the city to date had been from the windows of the vans, in the dark, en route to restaurants. It seemed a shame to be in this place, and not to see anything of it.
We drove down along the mountains against which Bogota is built. The city spreads away from here, out onto the savanah, and loses it’s form as it expands away. We passed good schools, the fine hills, and the barrios that found their places to cling to. Interestingly, in terms of community involvement, the schools include children from the barrios, giving them a stake in the security of the institutions.
As another note on security – given that the city still carries it’s old reputation – Bogota now has fewer murders per capita than many of the US cities (Washington, Detroit, and Chicago stand out as examples). Whether that makes you feel better or not is a personal matter.
We were making first for Monserrate, the hill that overlooks the centre of Bogota. As there’s a wait for the cable car, and it was on our way, it seemed wisest to do this first, rather then later in the day. From here we took in the views and admired the church – El Senor Caido – atop the mount.
I also admired the pastry stands, selling empanadas and other stuffed delights.
We had taken the cable car to get up there, and were panting appropriately at this altitude (Bogota itself is at 2600 m, and this was a ways up beyond that, obviously), but I saw old women who had climbed, barefoot, as a pilgrimage, coming to the shrine at the church for the good of their souls.
Of interest, too, was the restaurant up here, in a fine old white building looking down on the city. Lina told us that this place, that if you came here with your girlfriend/boyfriend, you were destined never to marry. You gotta wonder about the guys that bring their girls here.
Another typical snack here is dried bread. Not quite pretzels, but similar, sold in long hanging strands.
From the hill we headed down to the old centre of town. We’d wanted to see the Gold Museum, famous for its collection of pre-Columbian pieces, but it was closed for renovations. However, they’d taken a number of the more important pieces, and had put them on display in the Botero museum. So, we benefited in two forms, getting to see not only the gold of the past, but also catching what may be Columbia’s most famous artist’s work – the “fat people”.
I felt a certain kinship with the subjects, I must say.
After the museum, we stolled the old streets. This was still well populated, and home to the government offices. The buildings and the district had been well restored and maintained, with the modern facilities required of the city located away from here.
We stopped in at the Hotel de la Opera, in the hopes of taking coffee, to observe the old rooftops of Bogota from the top of the hotel. But the roof would not open until 11, and we did have a plane to meet.
Instead we took our coffee in the courtyard, with me paying as a minor (and only initial) form of penance for my sins of this morning.
I must say, after the night/morning before, a cappucino with cane sugar did help a lot.
After coffee we walked to the plaza, the wide open space of this area. Along one of the buildings was a long banner, with details of the hostages recently released (“Bienvenidos” you can see on the banner), but also with pictures of some of the 720 others who are still being held in the jungles by the FARC.
February 4th, with the marches against the FARC, would be an interesting day.
The van picked us up from the plaza, and took us to the airport. Our time was done. I would very much have liked to have spent another day or two here at my leisure, as I was enjoying what I saw, and I knew I had hardly seen any of it.
But, the flights on the weekend were full, and our tickets couldn’t be changed. And it must have been a bit of a relief to have this ill-mannered group of drunken louts (okay, “drunken lout” singular, I’ll speak only of myself) off of our hosts’ hands.
Lina deposited us at the airport, wished us the best, and with luck we may see her and the others in the Gulf sometime soon.
We can only hope.
Music for Airports
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Ah, but we'll have another field study just starting up on the 13th!
But more on that in a month (or less).
Meanwhile, back to the programme.
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Andre’s Carnes de Res
All you have to do is mention this name to a Columbian, particularly from Bogota, and you’ll see their eyes light up.
Heck, my eyes light up now. Bright red, but they light up.
This was the wrap up. We’d finished with work, our support staff were closing down operations, and so we were freed up to go ahead to Chia, for Andre’s.
When we’d arrived, we’d been told that it wouldn’t work out for us, but, luckily, we’d persisted, and one of our crew had made the executive decision to launch the expedition out of town. I’d been worried that the others had had their hearts set on Mexican, but no one seemed to mind in the least that we were going here, instead.
The only issue of debate had been on when to leave. One faction held for waiting until 8 p.m., when traffic would’ve died off a bit, while another held for “getting going as soon as possible”. After all, this was cutting into drinking and eating time.
I’ll let you hazard a guess as to our choice.
How bad could the traffic be in a city of 8 million?
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As we sat at one particular jam, I used the opportunity to observe one little hole-in-the-wall. It was a sandwich shop - Sanducheef.
Behind the display case there was a pile en dishabille of brown crusted loaves. A man in white was busy back there packing one with a selection of items I could not discern. In a moment, another man road up astride his motorbike. He dismounted and turned his large frame away from us, displaying the license on his back.
Motorcycle riders here are required to wear a vest with their license on display. This restriction is an effort to cut down on the number of bike-enacted executions. If you have a passenger, the passenger wears the vest (although I did not notice anyone riding pillion while we were there). Perhaps something to try in Thailand, where the second-man-shooter is most in fashion?
The large man gestured to the man in white, the man in white handed the smaller man a sandwich, and then he set to work on the larger man’s apparent order.
I liked it as a study. The bright interior of the kitchen against the sepia tones of the outside light.
The large man received his baguette, but didn’t eat it immediately. He talked to the smaller man about something, gesticulating with his sandwich. Finally, as a punctuation, he bit in savagely upon the bread, his huge mouth taking away a third of the loaf.
I considered, for a moment, cracking the door, making a break for Sanducheef, and ordering what they were having.
Then I thought about the reaction of our bodyguard and of our poor handlers who were responsible for us.
And then the traffic started to move again.
I’m just getting too old.
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From that intersection, things moved well. Soon we arrived at the toll booth, which, for a small sum, allowed us to travel in a smaller, more select crowd, on an even better road than we had been upon before.
We drove for perhaps half an hour, past upscale housing communities and malls, and more restaurants, clubs, and then past an antique bridge (the new road did not envelop it) which Lina told us was the sight of one of the ancient battles of the Spanish against the indigenous peoples.
Now Lina was telling us of the upcoming march. There was to be a mass demonstration on February 4th of the people of Columbia against the FARC and their violence and the violence of the country. People, as everywhere, were tired of it all, and wanted to get on with their lives.
I can sympathise with that. A pity we wouldn’t be here on the 4th. This was our final night.
As we drove into Chia, I saw restaurants everywhere. It was dark, and the interior lights highlighted the wooden décor and open kitchens. Parilla – grills – for cooking meat were abundant. Solid tables, with what one would hope to be solid food.
And then we arrived at Fantasyland.
Alighting from the van, we were ushered into Andre’s, turnstiles slapping our backsides as we filed in, wending our way through what was then a vacant hall.
Or, rather, a series of rooms. Andre’s appeared to be an organic growth, a series of shacks added on to shacks, one leading into others. As we twisted through I was struck by the similarity to a digestive tract, and all this entrailed (sorry!).
If the path through was intestinal, then you can appreciate that the walls were awash in flora. Every inch, every corner, every nook, and every cranny was decorated in some way, much of it with recycled material.
There were at least three dance areas that we came across as we explored, and a number of bars. (Saying “a number” means I forgot to count).
A couple of us explored, while the rest settled into our table by the main dance floor.
I main an attempt to read the menu, but my eyes are definitely failing me in these darkly lit places I’m finding myself in nowadays. Even with a candle, it was hard to make out what it said on the paper inside the roller box.
But, why do I worry? Our hosts were busy ordering a selection of items. I just took things as they came, and hoped to make sense of them.
I blinked, and the first dish to hit our table was almost gone. A fried cheese, taken with sour cream, served on a plantain leaf.
As I’d said, we were early, so the dance floor was pretty vacant. But they had a wandering band making counter-noise to the sound system, and a collection of entertainers done up for Carnival. One of these was done up as a priest, and, while my Spanish was proving up to the task of reading a menu (even if my eyes weren’t) I couldn’t make out the tirade that he lit into us with.
Did we look that degenerate? Maybe I shouldn’t ask……
Next up was, I believe, a yuca bread. It had been flattened and then cooked. We pulled it apart from the mass, and then took it with the sides of chicharron, ricotta, beans, and salsa.
And there were the little potatoes again!
These started going down like bar nuts. A little oil in the cooking, and a sprinkle of salt. My team mate beside me grabbed one dish and wouldn’t let go.
And then came the sausages. The chorizo, to me, tasted the same as what we’d had earlier, but the morcilla was a bit juicier, and more satisfying in the mouth. And the arepas, while still dry, were fresh and tasty with the fat in the sausage.
And, as the extra treat, the sausages came with trip. Remember, Korean kopchang is one of my favourite things, so this was a bonus. They were good and chewy, yielding up that soft unpleasantness from within.
As you’d expect, this was hardly the place to teetotal.
We’d started off with Club Columbia, but it occurred to me that –
1. I was in the Continent of Cocktails
2. I didn’t have to drive home!
So, I checked with Lina on the house cocktails. Without hesitation, her answer was “mojito”.
The mojito came in a gourd about the size of my head, packed with mint and other herbs, limed up, and graced with a strawberry on the side. I took a sip, and then another.
This was going to be a good night.
Some evil soul had also order a few bottles of Aguardiente Antioqueno – the Columbian equivalent of soju, taken by the bottle, the more often the better. With a hint of anis, it’s fairly mild as it hits you, running around 30%.
Then the wandering band came back, tied a red napkin on one of the lads, and put sparklers in his hands. I’m not certain why, but it gave me more light to read by.
Next up was a beautiful thing. Lomo al Trapo.
This was a cut of meat from the shoulder (we were working by body language across the table). It had been covered in salt, then wrapped in cloth, and then tossed in the fire. Like the salt domed fish, the juice was all trapped inside, and the meat came out a zombie-like grey on the outside, and just perfect inside.
The dance floor, and the restaurant, was packed by now. Feeling better about the hunger thing, and waiting on a second mojito, I went for a prowl to check out the kitchen.
With seating for 1500 (and they’re sold out most of the weekends) the cooking areas were as you expected. Big.
And it does my heart good to see a shovel for the ovens.
Things were also very clean and efficient, and as I watched the chefs working around the fires like imps in Dante’s Inferno, I was cheered by their grace.
I watched with glee as the potatoes – the little ones – went into the oil for their bath.
How many mojitos had I had?
Back at the table, I found another Columbian favourite – empenadas. Heck, this is a favourite anywhere the Spanish have been, from Madrid to Bogota to Manila.
And my next mojito had shown up.
At this point, things got a little blurry.
But, as long as I’ve got my notebook, some potatoes, and an empanada, what can go wrong?
I took another plate of the lomo.
As I’d said, the dance floor was packed. Half our table was up there, and the other half were hooting and rolling their arms in the air.
Plates of meat, this time grilled, and our second shift, who’d had to follow us later, arrived to wolf it down, and then they hit the dance floor.
Now I know how the Columbian women stay so thin. They burn it off.
A burner of corn showed up, the cobs resting over a hot piece of charcoal.
This I was not as thrilled by, the kernels being thicker and starchier, and not as sweet, as what I’m used to in “the other Columbia” (BC, that is).
At some point I’d tossed the straws from my mojito, and was drinking it from the gourd, hoisted in one hand.
Strangely, the bowls seemed to empty quickly. I checked for leaks, but found none.
Maybe it evaporates?
Our waitress, Stephanie, was by, delivering more limes, so I asked for something different.
What she brought back was a like a frozen marguerita, but made with pulped mango.
I ate the cherry, tossed the straws, hoisted the gourd, and enjoyed the people watching.
The entertainers were still out there and hard at it, joining in the dancing, and taunting those of us who didn’t get up to shake it.
I noticed one girl up there wearing fur trimmed stilletos, others in various costumes of interest, and everyone moving with a grace that was guaranteed to keep me intimidated enough to stay glued to my seat.
Taunt away.
And on the side of the dance floor, Sebastian, a mestizo, slowly swept things clean, oblivious to the world.
Finally, I stirred from my bench.
I could feel the movement.
I had to use the washroom.
These were as colourfully decorated as the rest of the place.
The effect of the décor is almost like a Thai temple, with every open bit of space decorated with colour, with something shiny. On close inspection that something shiny may just be a bit of broken crockery, but heck, it does look good when you get the entire effect.
Back at the table, someone had ordered a pizza.
For me, this wasn’t quite right. It tasted for all the world like hot cardboard. Not a flavour I usually look for. But one of our Columbian company advised that it needed to be eaten with salsa, and that did make it more palatable.
And another round of aguardiente helped it all go down.
Oh, yeah. If you buy anything in the gift shop (I’m a sucker for bar shirts), they put a hospital bracelet on you, and pass your purchase over to you at the door when you leave. I think there are assumptions made about your mental capacity to remember things at the end of the night.
Also, when you go to leave your bags or coats, they bring over a lock bag to the table, and everything goes into the canvas sack to be locked up in a bundle. You may not keep the crease in your linen, but it’ll get back to you when the lights go out.
The conga line was moving at this point, and things appeared to be going swimmingly.
I sniped at the remaining beef, and found some more of the morcilla to nibble at. At 12:30 the first vehicle left to get back to Bogota, but it just seemed like a good idea to stay on a little more.
At 3:00, it seemed the steam was finally running out.
Andre’s has been around for almost a quarter of a century now. In that time they’ve learned to take care of their clientelle. Outside they have bunks, for people that really need to sleep it off, and, if that’s not enough, you can get a driver to take you and your vehicle back to Bogota.
They also keep a bit pot of soup on the go, to help sober up the real drunkards.
And darned tasty it was, too.
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Talking with the others, they’d chosen The King and I for dinner the night before.
I’d been right.
The fried stuff had been alright – spring rolls and such – but the soup had been sad. Sealing the wontons (wontons at a Thai place?) hadn’t been high on their priority list, and the summer rolls came wrapped in saranwrap.
The highlight for the guys was when they had to go around outside to the back to use the can. Obviously, it had been a gas station in a previous life, and the amount of reworking had been marginal.
We wouldn’t be going back there.
Instead, for lunch, two of us headed over to Johnny’s.
Unfortunately, as we’d gone straight from work, I forgot to bring the camera. I’d taken this shot the day before when I did the walkabout.
Let me talk you through it.
From the door, it was a funnel up to the counter, which had two guys working the line. The popular choices were one, two, or three meat dishes – with ribs, ham, brisket, sausages, hot links, and turkey – with a selection of cole slaws, potato salad, fries, rings, and other stuff to fill out the gaps in your diet.
I went for ham, sausage, and hot links. With this I got fries and beans, and ordered a Miller. The meats came slathered in red bbq sauce. In the condiments section it was pickles. Bread and butter, but also jalapenos, and a couple of other hot chilis that I couldn’t identify – sort of tomato shaped. I loaded up on the pickles.
The sausage was more tender and juicier than the hot links. The hot links seemed softer. Both were good sausages, and I was happy with having chosen them. The ham was also good. I find it difficult to find a ham on the menu at a lot of places, unless there’s a carvery on the go, so I take advantage of it when I find it.
My partner was having the ribs, and I tried a bite of his. More of a dry cook, taking the side of the argument that doesn’t go for the “falling off the bone” style.
My plate, piled up with meat, put me in mind of meals in Germany from years back, and I could see that the original central European stock in this area must have had some influence on the food (that should open me up for some cheers of derision from the bbq experts out there). But as I looked at the plate in front of me – setting aside the fries and beans – I was thinking of schlachtplatte-style eats I’ve enjoyed in the past….maybe without the red sauce, too.
We’d gotten in just ahead of the crowd. When we looked up from our feed the lineup was stretching the whole length of the restaurant, and back up to the door. It was cold outside, so the line didn’t go beyond that point.
Behind the queue on the wall there was a small framed photo up of Johnny himself. He’d opened this place back in 1952, having returned from Korea.
An interesting crowd, very oil field, with a lot of discussion of the rigs and development plans going on around us, along with talk of the pasting they’d just taken from UCLA. Two good old boys caught my eye. They were both as wide across the shoulders as their table, and looked like they could’ve picked up a good length of drill stem and used me as a golf ball.
Every table was occupied, and we were starting to get some stares for being there for so long. We didn’t linger, and headed back to work before I ended up on the driving range.
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I had problem explaining my dinner plans.
“Where are you eating tonight?”
“The Bar. For ribs.”
“They have food in the bar downstairs? I thought it was just peanuts and stuff.”
“I’m not eating in the bar, I’m eating at The Bar.”
Hu’s on first………
It was getting colder outside. Cold and windy.
Our plans almost derailed when I saw a sign for menudo, something I’ve been on the lookout for, but it turned out to be a false alarm.
Either the place was still getting ready to open, or it had been vacant for some time. In either case, there’d be no tripe for us tonight (my comrades breathed a collective sigh of relief).
The Bar was pretty much packed out. The parking lot was full, and there were people – real live walking around people – heading inside. We found a table in the back amongst the dead deer and deceased fish (and with photos to show the catch).
I was a little disappointed to find that the frogs’ legs had been 86’d earlier in the day. Still, there is some benefit to erring on the side of caution. And then we found that there was only one order of ribs left to be had.
The manager felt bad about the double whammy, and bought us a round of beers, which more than cheered us up. I grabbed the last of the ribs, making a deal with one of the other guys to split it with him in return for his Jack Daniels glazed rib eye.
For starters, the frogs being off, I went for the quail. No problem with this dish, the little birds had been well marinated and grilled, and then served on a bed of sweet potato fries.
The ribs were, indeed, falling off the bone. An easy eat, and the smoke permeated the meat. The rib eye was also excellent, and I didn’t begrudge (too much) having given up some of my pork.
The manager stopped by to chat with us some more. I’d had some questions about a couple of things, and he was happy enough to put up with my queries.
First, the man behind all of this is Scott Gunn. He’d started off here as the beer delivery guy, and then worked his way in, and finally bought the place out. I’d wondered about the menu, as frog legs aren’t necessarily what I expect on a Midland bar menu. It seems that Mr. Glenn gets out to Vegas a few times each year, and everytime he finds something good being prepared, he looks to see if it would work for The Bar.
I like the sounds of this guy.
The beer can collection is up for a worl record. I’d thought maybe he’d been collecting for ages and ages, but the answer wasn’t so romantic. Several years ago, a local woman had approached him with her grandfather’s beer can collection. He’d bought it in one go. This was quite a take, as most of the cans are quite rare. We spent a good while looking through the different brands and styles that took up about three walls in the front of the bar.
There were even a couple of cans of Billy Beer (Jimmy Carter’s brother’s short lived brewing venture) up there (and we were so slow witted they had to point them out to us).
Along with the devotion to petroleum memorabilia, taxidermy, and beer, Scott’s also a big Elway fan, with loads of football stuff around. He even named his dog Elway, and carved Elway’s name into the floor.
I appreciate obsession in a person.
On the way home, I toyed with the idea of looking in on Hot Shots and another bar who’s name escapes me, but found that they were advertising karaoke. That was enough to send me fleeing back to the Hilton.
This turned out to be a good move. Mahogany was doing an open mike night, and it was a good crowd that was in. Young, guitars in hand, and an easy camaraderie amongst them all that indicated they were all acquainted (heck, it’s Midland. How could they not all be acquainted?).
Live, original (mostly) music, and tequila. How could you not have a good night with a combination like this?
Of course, the next morning was another matter.
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That was it. The Midland stop was pretty quick. We’d done what we came to do, and now it was time to get out of Dodge. We checked our bags, and then stopped for breakfast.
From here, we had to change planes in Houston, and then it was time to go North.
We’d thought Midland was cold.
We were about to learn about cold.
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And a walk it was. I was back with the Langoliers, that feeling of dead time lingering about as I walked in my long coat down the empty streets.
I saw a couple of folks moving from their cars to their offices, and one teenager huddled over in the cold, intent on her cell phone, a hood pulled over her head as she sat cross-legged atop a cold stone cube.
My intent in walking was both to get a bit of exercise, of which I’ve been significantly lacking this trip, and to sniff out what else there was for food, working primarily from Darlene’s recommendations.
Just down Big Springs I found Johny’s. Darlene had spoken well of Johnny’s and it was close enough to the hotel that it would work well for us as a lunch spot.
Given that it closed early – around 7 - it was going to have to do as a lunch.
Farther down Big Spring I came across the Asian contingent, a Thai restaurant called The King and I. Somehow I’d picked up the impression that I’d be better off in Bangkok for Thai food. Unfair, I know, but we have to go with our gut sometimes (mine tends to lead me about).
After that, there were the old stand-bys; Dairy Queen, Subway (I think), and other fine dining establishments. I turned around and worked my way up the other direction, back the way I’d come.
Not much, but I did figure out where I needed to go for dinner, so I’d accomplished something in reconnoitering the place.
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After work we fell back on the Mahogany Bar in the Hilton. Happy hour, and the beers were affordable, and they had live music of the West Texas persuasion, which means someone with a guitar. I sounded others out about dinner, but people were getting leary of my dining choices by now.
Dinner was a step out from the Hilton out the back door and across the parking lot by the library. There was a cold wind blowing through the empty streets, and my coat flapped as I covered the ground.
I needed to get under the freeway and up a few blocks. I jumped the railing and dropped a couple of feet to the sidewalk that went under I20. There was the usual grafitti, but, surprisingly, no homeless sheltering from the cold under here (Midland has one of the lowest unemployment rates in the country). Surfacing on the other side, I found myself amidst auto body shops side by side with a Heavy Metal CD retailer. I went past a boarded up house that had been closed off with shingles and looked disturbingly familiar from numerous 1970’s psycho films, a Winnebago or two, and empty used car lots. There was also a mini-warehouse business
I guess grease monkeys – plural – might be alright. You just don’t want them there on their lonesome.
From there it was just a matter of getting across Florida. This took a bit of a wait as I let the police and the emergency services go by. It seemed the wise thing to do, rather than insist on my rights as a pedestrian.
Did I mention that there weren’t a lot of people on the streets?
Folks had recommended Dona Anita’s. And, with several cars parked outside, at least it seemed to be inhabited.
Inside, it was fairly ramshackle, always a good sign in places like this. The TV was covering the primaries, and there was a staff of three or so taking care of the Spanish speaking customers. A large neon sign proclaimed “Cerveza Budweisser Siempre Fresca”.
I took a table by the wall, and looked over the menu. But first I ordered a Tecate.
The waitress came back a couple of minutes later. They were out of Tecate.
I ordered a Corona.
The waitress came back a couple of minutes later. They were out of Corona.
I overheard one of the neighboring tables ask for a straw. They were out of straws. Then they asked for a Coors Lite.
Yeah, you guessed it.
I switched tactics and ordered a marguerita. On a hunch, I asked them what sort of tequila they had. They didn’t have a liquor license, so it would be made with wine.
I went for a Dos Equis. That they had.
A lot of the menu looked pretty Tex-Mex, but there were some interesting dishes, mainly steaks and a couple of stews. The tacos al carbon had gotten a write up in one of the magazines (Texas Monthly), and I asked the waitress her opinion on them. She said go for the tacos.
She also recommended the deep fried jalapenos. That sounded good, but she came back to say that they were out of jalapenos.
“It must’ve been a really good weekend?”
“Oh, yeah. We were really busy.”
I didn’t feel so bad about things at that point. At least there was a reason for the place being drained of supplies.
The waitress asked me if I wanted something. Being Canadian and unable to understand anything, I just nodded and said “yes, please”. What I got was a big bowl of what I think was melted Velveeta in a bowl to go with the corn chips.
I wouldn’t say it was particularly appetizing, but I did have a frosted mug for my beer.
My tacos were quite good. Lots of oil and grease on the tortillas, as they’d been fried up. My hands were a mess afterwards. The meat was crispy, and hot as sin when it came to the table. A simple dish, but that’s often a good thing.
The beans were that unfortunate diarrhea-runny texture that makes me think of canned goods. But, then again, the canned versions all give themselves names from this part of Texas, so maybe this is more the original?
It doesn’t matter much, as I didn’t eat much of them. I’d grown fond of the thicker, starchier version at Hugo’s in Houston.
I finished up and hit the road, all cold wind, flapping coat, and that lonesome guitar soundtrack. I had another stop to make.
I cut through some open ground and went past Luigi’s pizza. I was looking for The Bar, which I’d been told was around here somewhere.
I found it soon enough, and stopped in for a beer and to check the menu. Darlene had said their ribs were good, and I still had faith in her.
The menu was very interesting. Ribs and steaks, as you’d expect, but also frog legs and quail. This place was definitely up on my list of dinner targets. And the staff were good. As with The Wall Street, they had that ability to put you at ease. The décor was oilfield, which I’m comfortable with. Signs from a lot of the companies that don’t exist anymore, and plenty of articles on the bizness.
Plus, they have what may be the largest collection of beer cans on display.
I’ll come back to this later. For the moment, I contented myself with a Bock, and took in the feel of the place (and it was crowded, too. I was growing starved for human company in this town)
A couple of beers in me, I headed back to the hotel and checked out the insides of my eyelids.
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Midland
This is a place that was crying out for a Ry Cooder soundtrack. Lonely steel guitar, plaintive notes of loneliness, and the whistle of the wind through vacant streets.
And those streets were darned vacant.
It was a Monday, a business day, and we were in the downtown core, driving through empty streets on our way in from the airport. I was with Darlene, a charming native who spent many decades in West Texas, and now had a taxi company here in Midland.
Darlene told me of some places to eat, and I made my notes. Ribs. BBQ. Mexican. She did dearly love Mexican food, but her acid wouldn’t let her eat it any more. Pity.
As Darlene drove and talked, I looked for signs of life in the town. Something other than the paltry few cars about the roads.
Nothing. No one. Zilch.
I felt like I was on the set of Stephen King’s The Langoliers, where time is dead, stale, and waiting to be finally consumed.
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One of our crew had done time here (not in the penal sense) and he and everyone else I’d talked to (including Darlene) had recommended The Wall Street Bar & Grill. Who was I to fly in the face of public opinion?
Luckily (as we were hungry) The Wall Street was just a block down from the Hilton where we were staying. I put on my long coat, and we walked. On the corner was an old bank building that was being redone as high end condos…..Someday. It had done service as a church at somewhere in the past, the logo “Satan is Defeated” still etched into the glass. I looked at my reflection under the signage.
Across the street from that, next door to the barbershop (seniors only $10) was the green awning of Wallstreet. Inside was a beautiful study in western dining. Lustrous dark brown wood, a fantastic old bar, and serviceable seating, four chairs to the table, and crisp linen under glass.
Things were getting better.
Don’t let this photo lead you astray. There were people in here, and there was good business being done. We hadn’t strayed into the Langoliers after all.
Our waitress was a middle-aged lady of upstanding character (which means she wasn’t lying down on the job), with that comfortable manner about her that you only seem to find in small towns.
I like small towns….at least, to visit.
One of the team ordered the shrimp popcorn. A fine study in deep fried food.
Nothing at all to complain about with this dish. Crisp and still hot to the table. The colour that wonderful golden brown, with streaks of red prawn meat showing through.
Myself, I ordered the black bean soup. This was the day’s special. Our waitress apologized for the bit of a mess in getting to out table, but when someone’s as nice as she was, you’re not going to hold it against her.
I cracked up my corn chips, and let them sog down a bit with the soup.
The beans were good, not broken down, but still with some texture to them.
The drinks selection wasn’t bad, either. A good variety of imported beers. My only regret is that they didn’t have any draught, only long necks. This place would work well with draught. For my part, I ordered a bottle of Bass (I figure you should always try to get some fish in your diet).
When I’d ordered my soup, the waitress had asked if I wanted salad. I’d said no, and her comment was “oh, that’s a very light lunch”.
I let her know I wasn’t finished ordering yet.
I guess they do a lot of salads for lunch.
I ordered the porterhouse.
This was a fine cut of meat, draping over the plate, and loaded with fried potatoes that hadn’t come from a McCain’s bag.
I’d ordered the steak rare, and it came out just off of blue in the middle. Buttery, and soft to chew.
The bar was a nice old antique (similar to me, but leave off the “nice” part). Well aged wood, the sort of thing you could see yourself coming up to after a hard day on the range and ordering a shot of whisky (it wouldn’t be Scotch, so no “e” in the whiskey), pushing your hat back, and giving your reflection in the mirror that 1000 mile stare.
I passed on dessert. It all sounded good enough, but I was beginning to find some difficulties in getting into my suit.
Probably a good time for a walk, I thought.
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February 29
The day started well enough. Not a sign of a headache, and plenty of work to be done.
Strangely, I don’t mind the work. When you’re busy, the time between meals can pass extremely quick, and then, before you realize it, you’re where you want to be, eating.
I’d had a plan for the sausages. Or, rather, Lina had a plan. She’s a lot smarter than I’ll ever be. We would simply have the Radisson cook up the provisions for a late snack in the morning.
I snuck in a couple of bites when it arrived hot and just prepared. The chorizo was extremely comforting, drooling pork fat and juice into your mouth as you chewed upon it, while the morcilla, effectively a boudin noir, was a lot drier, with that iron tang of blood that I enjoy (why does everyone back away when I say that?).
The dishes came with a bit of guacamole for contrast, and, maybe it wasn’t the right mix, but I liked my morcilla with guac, as it tended to take the drier edges away.
We were allowed out again during a lull, and myself and one of the guys headed out of the hotel and up to the Juan Valdez Café, perhaps the biggest chain in Columbia.
I’d always taken Juan for a stereotype, or a marketing tool for Maxwell House, but here he’s an icon. Doing some hunting (www.juanvaldez.com okay, I tend to go for roadkill when it comes to hunting) it turns out that he’s the icon for the National Federation of Coffee Growers in Columbia. This represents several hundred thousand independent coffee growers in Columbia. The equivalent of Opec for the coffee world, they try to regulate coffee prices (don’t laugh, coffee futures can be wild) and stabilize things for the 15% of the Columbian population that relies on the coffee business. Juan, and his burro, Conchita, were created for the Federation, rather than for the American marketers, and I was starting to feel a lot better about him.
And his position in society goes beyond coffee, he’s much more of a national icon. In the marches on February 4th against the FARC, shirts bearing Juan’s image, a finger pointing with some degree of parallax, ordering Chavez out, is one of the shirts worn by the Columbians protesting the violence that had crippled their country, and which they’re just now healing from.
Okay, I’ll tone down the politics.
Besides the coffee they were selling caps, shirts, umbrellas and stuff. Including coffee. I added another couple of bags to my collection.
For coffee, they took the civilized approach of offering hot, cold, and spiked (“Extreme”). Given that I had good reasons for remaining conscious, I asked Nancy the Barrista for a cane sugar loaded cubano, and amused myself with the knickknacks.
Nancy tamped the coffee, and got to work while I fulfilled my role of being a general source of amusement to one and all.
When it was ready, I took the cubano to the patio, and watched the world. I needed some sunglasses, and I could’ve been really cool. Okay, maybe a body, some decent clothes, and a new personality would help, too.
I miss people watching. Heck, even car watching. The town is full of old Beetles. I seem to recall they were still being manufactured in South America somewhere. But, back to the people, they are a very attractive lot. There’s a good mix of indigineous, Spanish, some Asian, English, and a lot of Arabic, either going back through the old Spanish/Moorish bloodlines, or more recently through influxes from the Levant. Remember, Shakira is from Columbia, although the Lebanese will fight you over that.
Yeah, I’ve gotta get some dark glasses. It’s hard to be lecherous without them.
Back at work, having gone light on lunch (for me it was just the sausages), I indulged in a bit of pastry. This was an extremely crumbling affair, spilling sugar dust everywhere.
As you may have noticed, I don’t usually do dessert stuff, but there was something about that defiant pine nut poking out from the top that just made me think of Easter Island.
I was reaching a level of comfort with this town, I must say. I pulled my tickets out and tried to see if they could arrange for me to stay another day or two. I mean, at this point I had a choice of sitting in Houston for two nights, or sitting here for two nights.
I’d rather sit here.
Next – Pure Hedonism
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Have a read from accidental hedonist,
Accidental Hedonists Calgary visit
Accidental Hedonists research on where to go
Make sure to read the comments
300,
Thanks for that! I did go through the comments, but, as usual, I find myself already packing bags and planning on the next leg.
I really liked the write-up in the blog, too. Wasn't there something in SouthPark about one of the kids being adopted from Canada?
Cheers,
Peter
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February 28
Our second day in Bogota was a rough start.
We have a lot of rough starts.
Luckily, in Columbia, when you get off to a a difficult beginning, there’s a remedy.
Nothing picks you up like coca leaf tea. Not that I was going to try and bring this through Miami customs later on, but it was worth trying a cup if the mornings became too hard on me.
I must say, the catering by the Radisson was a far cry from the stale biscuits and bad coffee I’m used to elsewhere (Asia being the exception – I still have fond memories of courses taken in Kuala Lumpur and the spreads put on by hotels like the Concorde and the Ritz Carlton there). We’d had fine sandwiches the day before. And then, today, there were crepes laid on for us. And brownies. I needed the sugar rush to get me through the afternoon.
There was a bit of a break in the early afternoon, so a couple of us took the opportunity to slip out to a nearby traditional Bogota food market.
We went to Carrrefour.
Hey! We’re working here! I enjoy the scenec squalor of traditional market as much as the next guy (okay, may be I enjoy it more than the next guy, given my propensity for the offal sections), but there was limitied time, and I wanted to put some images to the juices and names I was hearing.
With my lovely handler to explain things, I picked through the produce and meats section. The meats were sort of self explanatory, but I was interested in the sausages, Lina recommended a chorizo Antioqueno and a morcilla, both of which I bought. This also required a package of the corn flour cakes – areppa de maiz – that the Columbians cannot live without.
The mall security had me a little intimidated, so I didn’t whip the camera out while I was inside, but rather shot the groceries once we returned to the hotel.
Unfortunately, my timidity meant that I didn’t get any shots of the produce, but I’ll talk you through it.
The fruits were the first thing I was after. I checked out the feijoa I’d been drinking, and it did look like a guave, but more elongated (at last compared to what I remember a guava looking like). Almost reminded me a bit of a bitter gourd.
And the lulu wasn’t what I’d expected. A citrus, as I understood, but it had the shiny skin of a tomato. And there were little orange fruits (that I bought a tub of for the room) that were beautifully sweet and juicy (and which I forgot in the room when I packed out…but then again, the FDA agents at the airport might have had some words to say). There were other little fruits that looked like cumquats, but we couldn’t be sure, and a few others that now escape my whiskey soaked (I’m drinking a Dalwhinnie with a Newcastle Brown on the side as I write this, so I can use the “e” in whiskey) mind.
But let’s talk potatoes.
There were about a dozen varieties there, and I was, I admit it, entranced.
Nothing was of the humongous size were used to in the States. Rather, the majority were small fingerlings – very charcoaly grey – and small, cheerful yellow ones that looked like marbles with liver spots. Others had that sort of rock like irregular look that you know would make them just perfect for throwing (if they were rocks). I think I’ve described them as the “size and shape of a child’s fist”.
I looked at those little ones, and all I could think of was a good bit of cheese, runny and smelly, just melted and steaming and dipping these, littly boiled, into the congealed mammary fluid.
Lina advised me that these are best taken cooked whole as an appetizer or a side, and are beloved in this country.
And, remember, it was in Columbia that the potato first made the acquaintance of the Westerner. It’s belived that the tuber originated further South, based on the diversity. If you get to Ecuador and Bolivia, you’ll find thousands of varieties, although only a few hundred are cultivated.
Quick jog-free lesson! Columbia sits at the crown of South America, straddling the two oceans. Panama, that little umbilical cord, was part of the country ages gone by, but was passed to the USA in a deal which we won’t go into just now. The country is divided into three major mountain ranges (whose names I forget), and this breaks the country into numerous ecosystems, the valleys stretching up from the ocean to the high mountains.
It’s in the high mountains that we find the ‘taters, and, while not as diverse as in the originating countries, there’s still a great range to choose from.
However, that diversity is being challenged. Potatoes have proven to be one a money maker for the Columbians, and, while production only uses 10% of the arable land, the cash receipts make up 20% of the agricultural income (the legal part, that is. We won’t get into the other stuff…at least, not more than I have already). However, this economic benefit has been accomplished by concentrating on a smaller number of products with shorter cultivation periods.
Still, given that these are indigenous, and tasty, and I can work with that. But I did notice as I was checking some of these figures, that, because the country works so well for growing potatoes, that the multinationals have been introducing new variants, with romantic names such as “Clone A”- that one was from McCain’s, one of the multinationals based out of Canada. Interestingly enough, this is intended for the lucrative fries market, being long enough to support the mechanical process of cutting to shape. Think of that the next time you have a steak frites.
Also, while on the net, I learned that the potato is part of the Nightshade family, along with eggplants and a host of others I wouldn’t think were related. Neater, though, is a pest in potato farming, called Hairy Nightshade, difficult to deal with as it’s of the same family as the potato, so you don’t have much leverage against it.
Harry Nightshade would be a cool name for a character somewhere. Maybe, I should copyright?
Where was I? My the Dalwhinnie does seem to evaporate. Perhaps I should put a coaster atop it?
My other stop for souvenirs in this charming Mercado was in the coffee section. I loaded up on beans and decaf to take home. You can never have enough coffee….or beer…or pork……
I know, you’re wondering what I was planning for the sausages, but I’ll get to those later. We did have to get back to work.
In the evening, after finishing up around 6, a treat. We were allowed out on our own. It really isn’t that dangerous a city, particularly in this prosperous northern district of Susaquen.
Susaquen had been a separate town years back, but there had been a decision taken by the city fathers to expand to the North, moving much of the financial district in this direction as well.
But the old core of the town was still here, and it was seen as one of the more fashionable (and secure) areas.
Heck, they even had tourist-oriented shopping malls like the Hacienda Santa Barbara.
Of course, where there’s a shopping mall, there has to be a food court. And I know you’re all dying to know what’s on offer in the food courts of Bogota!
So, if you were to take a break from shopping, you would have a choice of:
Crepes; Arabian Falafa Express; Carnes (meat); Mediterranean; Hamburgers; salad; Mongolian; Italian; Roast beef; pizza; and Parilla Argentina (the latino grill – also a handy torture device, which Wikipedia gives a lot more play to than the cooking implement).
We were early to reach the plaza, where our restaurant was located and where we would meet the rest of the team, so we put our time to good use.
Fronting the plaza was, of course the church, and this in turn was flanked by rows of restaurants, with verandahs full of people enjoying the mild evening weather. Given that we had an hour, we considered, carefully, our choices. We were looking for something traditional, with local colour, and a sense of history……
Ah, forget all that. We went to the Bogota Beer Company. A pretty, old (as opposed to “pretty old” ) pub on the corner. We’d hoped to find something outside to soak in the ambience, but it was full enough that we had to burrow into the back to the bar itself. This was all to the good, as it gave us a better perspective from which to take in what was on tap, and the other accouterments of a working local.
Of interest, what we thought were tankards ala Das Hofbrauhaus (there’s a painful mix of languages) for sale, turned out to be the patrons individual mugs. These would get called for, get a quick rinse, and then go into operation.
The also had “bombers” (I think that’s the term), large bunged jugs that could be filled up at the bar and taken off premises.
This is a chain, of course, but they do offer a good selection of their own beers on draught. There was a traditional, a red, a porter, a dark, and a stout. Given the weather and the surroundings, I took a chance and went with the stout.
Oh, that was good. A head almost as smooth and velvety as a Guinness, like pulling a piece of velour through your lips (not something I do often, I admit….). It had me thinking about oysters and meat pies and other good things.
They don’t appear to distribute beyond their pubs, but they do do off sales, with a sampler pack of the red, traditional, stout, and dark. The porter must be more of a seasonal.
We toyed with the idea of a second beer (particularly the porter), but then opted to be on time for dinner. We were out here unattended on parole, and there was no sense in giving alarm to our hosts. Back across the plaza, we were just in time to be trapped in group photo sessions with the rest of our crowd.
I should’ve stayed with the porter.
80 Seats, our restaurant tonight, is a cevicheria, something that got my attention right away. I know I know, you’re going to want to know how many people it can seat…….
Attractive place, broken into a couple of levels. It had a bit of history, having been bombed just after it had first opened (okay, it was just a grenade). But that was ages ago, so don’t fret.
We had a long table available to us conveniently close to the posted menu, which was good for me. I understand now why they call these the “twilight years”. It gets darned hard to see anything in the dark.
The ceviche is presented as a selection of fish, with a complementary collection of ceviching styles, giving you the choice of how you want your flavours to be blended.
We took our ceviche as appetizers, tossed to the community of the table. The downside of dining in groups is that you are at the collective mercy as far as things like cooked vs raw goes, and spicy vs mild. But this is more than made up for by the quality of the company, especially the fairer sex.
I did mention the “good looking” and “smart” part somewhere earlier, didn’t I?
Along with the ceviche, we had some of the other local specialties. I was particularly happy to see a salad of octopus (I guess I should say octopi, but that sounds like it needs a pastry shell) – pulpo.
The pulpo had been lightly cooked, and then served with a mix of roasted vegetables and potatoes. Some parsley, and squeeze bottle carrot action made it look prettier.
The ceviche was interesting Like the night before, it wasn’t so limed that it would hurt your teeth.
Now, having said that, they were serving the ceviche with corn kernels, which Rodriguez had said was the counter to the caustic element of the lime. We did one ceviche of corvina, and another of prawns.
As a main, I’d ordered “fish in a bag”. A corvina, for my part.
This came sealed in parchment with basil pesto and vegetables.
Opened up, the flesh of the meat was moist and buttery, very similar in effect to the salt doming that was popular a few years back, and highly reminiscent of Paul Pairet’s sea bass in a bag, a take on the traditional Chinese bass dish. Unfortunately, this method doesn’t allow a lot of leeway. My fish had arrived undercooked, that unfortunate purgatory between cooked and sashimi. And, given the preparation method, it’s not something you can send back to be finished off, at least not once you’ve opened it up.
I resigned myself to sawing and chewing.
One of my neighbors had ordered the salmon, served up on a bed of fresh asparagus. This was done to perfection.
Also nearby was another fine piece of corvina, beautifully crusted, and cooked just right.
And, nearby, another of our agents had also ordered the fish in a bag. And there was no problem with hers.
They offered this method with four versions, all of which sounded and looked good. And, given that hers was properly cooked, I think it’s only I that need worry about the preparation.
My photo habit was becoming an object of general amusement, and I found myself leaning about to shoot most people’s dishes.
I lost track of what this fish was, but it sure looked good.
And then there were the potatoes. This shot was of the small potatoes I’d seen earlier in the market – the papitas criolles. They were about the size of the last joint of my thumb, and had a beautiful yellow skin. Unfortunately (said Lina) these ones had been mashed. They’re better the less effort you put into them.
Still, these potatoes creamed well in the mash, and gave off an aroma that made me think of rich earth.
We also ordered another, this one a gratinee of a larger potato. But when I say larger, we aren’t talking the big, big spuds we think of in the Northern part of the Americas. These were the ones I’d described as “the size of a child’s fist”.
How the people here keep so slim, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the desserts they keep on ordering? Desserts are slimming, right?
This was a chocolate fondant, with fresh ice cream on the side.
And this was a chocolate mousse cake with castor sugar for that “just-snowed” feeling.
Not being a dessert guy, I made do with a tinto to help my digestion and to ease my sleep.
Dinner done, we spilled out onto the street. It’s always amazing how good a few glasses of wine, some beers, and a lot of fine food can make you feel. Some of the group took the van back home, but we strolled back with our security keeping an eye on us.
The streets were still packed. People jammed into busses, cars full up and speeding to wherever. And lots of pedestrians. The cafés were still doing business, and there was a general feeling of, if not prosperity, of sophistication.
We stopped in the lobby bar for some more Club Columbias…. and a cognac or two,…..and maybe some Cabernet……..
Next – interlude
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According to their promo literature, Joaquin Murietta the "Robin Hood of the El Dorado" or something to that effect hence the West Coast Grill moniker
Mind you Murietta's Well is not too bad either ... a bottle or two of that 16% plus zinfandel "monster" might make you make some strange name decisions as well....
I hope the Murrietta's Well story has some truth to it. That is one of my favorite Zins
One would hope that
Every story has some truth,
Just as every spirit has some proof
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And you didn't even have a cell phone camera handy? What kind of world traveler are you?
The cell phone is the only camera. Yoonhi took the canon to Paris.
I'm soooooo ashamed............
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Golly gosh, feijoa juice! I wonder if they included the skins, because feijoa pulp is kind of creamy beige (and happily turns brown in the blink of an eye). Feijoa were introduced to New Zealand early on, and grow in many a back-garden, so I've drunk many types of feijoa juice, but none like that one. I wonder what other ingredients it may have included.
The lychee martini has been very popular in Japan for a while - mainly via Dita liqueur. Is this the first time you've encountered it?
Enjoying your hard-working efforts, and yes, let it rain potatoes!
With regards to the feijoa, I'll have to go with what they told me. It may be the local variant. I've seen the fruit whole, but not opened up.
The other fruit drink we had was lulu, which, when I saw it, I first thought was an orange, but on closer inspection the skin reminded me more of a tomato. But the taste was more citrus.
I wish I'd had more time to explore the fruits. This place as fun....okay, it still is fun, I'm just not there to enjoy it.
As for the lychee martini, I'd read about it some time ago, but I'd never actually seen one.
I believe milestones in one's life should be documented.
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Bye the way, you are in the home of the Caesar...forget the Bloody Mary
Now that I'm off the plane I can adjust my imperial bloodlines.
By the way, Rouge is good. Just be careful you order your cab before the hockey game gets out.
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February 7
It took a few seconds for it to register in my Bloody Mary soaked mind that the large patches of white I was seeing between the lights on the ground below were fields of snow.
It's been a long time since I've had to deal with snow.
I don't cope well.
Midland had been brisk, but there was a chill here. Still, it wasn't too bad, just around 0 centigrade. But we have reports that the temperature will plummet this weekend. Whether it makes it into the minus thirties like it did last week, I don't know.
But it's pleasant enough to be back here. The staff at our hotel have that annoying Canadian habit of being cheerful, precise, and efficient, that always makes me worry that this country has been secretly replaced by alien beings. Remember, P.J. O'Rourke considered Canada one of the strangest places he'd ever visited (there's a question! Has P.J. ever written directly on Canada? I've only had tangential references like that).
The morning was pretty much packed with work, but I cleared my calendar in time to get away to Murrieta's before the lunch crowd hit.
I'd tried to get reservations, but they were already booked out for today. But they've ample seating in the lounge for lunch (I'd had to dine at the bar last time), so they recommended a slightly early appearance.
Pity, as I love that tall open room I've observed, with the stonework going up and the light coming down.
Someday, maybe, they'll let me eat in there.
Now, I had several motives for Murrieta's.
First, they hadn't disappointed me with their food in the past.
Second, they're just across the street from where we're working.
Third - and most important - I've been reading On Drink, and Amis' talk of Guinness and oysters has driven me to distraction. I needed some oysters, and I recalled that Murrieta usually had a good selection from B.C.
I would love to put some pictures of those oysters up here. Golden Mantles from North of Powell River, just sparkling from the crisp sunlight coming through the windows, perched atop little mounds of rock salt, and these stark colours offset by the velvety cream of the Guinness' head and that dark blackness of the stout itself.
But I forgot the camera in the room.
Remind me to slap myself silly (Yoonhi's not hear to do it for me).
As more of a note for the dipsophilia site, my companion, another refugee from our morning schedule, had ordered a Black and Tan. This was perfect. An extremely clear terminator twixt the Guinness and the Bass, translucent amber with the sun just hitting it right, the light trapped against the black hole of the stout above.
Why, oh why, did I leave the camera behind?
The oysters were wonderful. Reading over the Houston side of things, there were ones I found to be okay, ones that were almost okay, and ones that were too flabby to enjoy much. But these, as Goldilocks would say, were just right. The brine still there, the meat protesting just that little bit, and ragged texture of strength to make you feel like you're actually eating something rather than back swallowing an unfortunate exodus from your sinuses.
I work hard to come up with descriptions like those.
Along with this I had a bowl of the clam chowder - thickly packed with clams, potato cubes, carrots, and matrixed with a firm, thick broth.
And for a main, one piece of tempura battered halibut with a mustard remoulade. Plus, after all these weeks, there was malt vinegar for my fries! The last time I asked for vinegar in the States I could hear them mocking me in the kitchen from where I sat at the front of the room.
They were a couple of servers down this afternoon - I suspect due to the flu that is ravaging this hemisphere (and which I suspect a couple of our team are carrying) - but I had the chance to clear up a couple of questions that had bothered us for awhile.
One was the origin of the name? Murrieta's, it would seem, came from a wine - Murrieta's Well, from the Livermore Valley in California - which they'd quite enjoyed. They couldn't use the full, name, but they could use Murrieta. Sounds like a sound reason to me.
The other question was the building itself. As Calgary has repopulated the downtown core in the last twenty years (mid-80s there wasn't much happening here after 5 p.m.), all sorts of interesting buildings have been reborn. This one, a beauty of stone and brick, had begun way back as a hotel, had been reworked as a series of shops, and then became Murrieta's in 2001.
The only question I couldn't get answered was the vault door behind the reception counter. That had made me think of a bank, but that wasn't the case. Perhaps its from the hotel days, or one of the shops.
It's good to keep some mystery in your life.
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Before we get too far into this, let me put in the links for the earlier parts of this road trip:
Part 2 - Bogota (which I am really trying to catch up on)
Part 3 - Midland (which is actually pretty cool, and will write itself, but I should finish Bogota first)
and, of course, we're here in Calgary right now, so I won't worry about that. I'll just write.
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Syn and Merlin,
thanks very much for the rec's. It sounds like there's a consensus on Rouge, and Capo will be the winner over Il Sogne.
I lunched at Murrietta's last time I was here, and was well impressed, even if I did have to eat at the bar. I'm at the Palliser, so it's an easy drop-in from here.
I liked St. Germain when I was there last (with a young woman in the booth behind me sending back her terrine of foie gras because she was vegan, and hadn't realized it had meat). And Raw had an interesting menu at the time, and a good looking bar.
Perhaps I found them on a good night, but I enjoyed the moules and veal shank I had when I was at Belgo in 2006. And the beer was good, too. Admittedly, the waitstaff weren't hard on the eyes.....I remember those fishnets......
Oh, and who's mixing the best cocktails in town now? Anybody interesting, or rooms that are worth the visit?
Time for bed now. It was a long flight.
Peter
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Quick on the general calls for help, here's a more specific one.......
Two years ago, while there were breeders certified for wagyu grade beef, it wasn't available on the menu in Calgary restaurants.
Has that changed?
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As usual, I'm falling farther and farther behind.
At this moment, I'm working to catch up in the lounge at Houston Intercontinental.
I'm getting this one tagged a little early, as I need some help.
My last trip to Cowtown was back just about two years ago. That's long enough ago that I my posting of that trip has shuffled off this mortal thread.
At the time, I'd enjoyed Belgo, Teatro, and the place in the Hotel Arts. The place out by the river hadn't thrilled me so much.
Now, I do remember in the responses that Il Sogne had been well recommended. Are there other spots I should return to? Bear in mind that my blood gets thinner and thinner with every year spent in warmer climes, and I'm not going to be looking for long journeys in what promises to be very cold weather this weekend.
On the other hand, should I just stick with the places I'd been eating at?
Please advise!
Peter
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I'll be coming back to this thread for a moment or two, once I catch up in the others. I did have time for one last meal in Houston transiting from Bogota to Midland.
To set the feel for the trip, I've missed out on the background music.
As mentioned in passing, Dengue Fever and the City of Ghosts soundtracks were my aural comforts during this period (and Dengue Fever has a new album out!).
For reading, I'd completed Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, during this phase. It'd been years since I read it, and I find the description of a plongeur's life still to be pretty much dead on, while his talk of poverty makes a lot more sense to me now that I'm older than when I was young.
Okay, I've got to write more about drinking, and then more about Bogota.
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Our first day of work was a long one. We’d started at 8, and continued through until 5ish. I know, I know, I get no sympathy from many of you out there, particularly those of you in the business. But this is still a grueling schedule to keep up for weeks on end, especially given what my normal schedule is like.
At first I’d considered out dinner situation a downside. As assets we had some value, so we’d been advised not to wander about on our own. Actually, we’d been told not to wander about on our own. Okay, they told us not to leave the hotel without an escort. I considered this to be, perhaps, a tad overcautious, but I appreciate the niceties of corporate insurance.
Still, I’ve spent enough time in the Middle East to appreciate that a region’s reputation is often far worse than reality (which is a topic you’ll find me coming back to often).
I do what I’m told (some of the time) and so I gave myself over to the fact that my meals would not be at my discretion.
Luckily, any problems related to this evaporated as soon as three basic truths became apparent:
The first was that our handlers were particularly well acquainted with the food scene of Bogota. They knew who the hot chefs were, and where to eat.
Second, while we were going to be dining on the high end, they could steer things to the local element.
Third, our agents were either very, very entertaining (the men), or stunningly good looking (the women), or both (the women again, I’m biased that way).
I’ve already covered our in-the-office dining earlier, so let’s move on to the evening.
Once we’d closed up shop, we cleaned up and the team headed out, half of us going to the Bogota Beer Company, and the other half to Harry Sasson’s Wok & Satay Bar, both in the T Zone of the Zona Rosa (the street t’s).
You can imagine how I was torn.
On the one hand, there was an opportunity to take in one of the best chefs in Columbia. Harry Sasson was a big part of the rejuvenation of the T district, bringing back fine, creative dining to Bogota. His string of restaurants were all well recommended, and this was an early chance to see what was going on with the culinary scene.
On the other hand, the other guys were going to a beer place.
Choices like these could make a strong man weep.
Luckily, I’m not a strong man. I figured we could do Harry’s first, and then meet the others at the bar after. It was only a couple of blocks away.
The drive down had me back in that happy state I’d encountered coming in from the airport. We were driving down from the North of the city. As we drove South I took in the ambience of the city. People walking, people crowding into busses, people sitting in the cafes, and the general mill of humanity. Except for the busses, it was all pretty attractive.
I exclude the busses as they appear to have a free pass to crush any other vehicles that get in their way. Similar to the Egyptian bus drivers, but with more of a macho assertivenss in how they place their several tons of steel into the space where your vehicle would want to exist.
We drove past the entrance to Park 93, another dining zone, an open park surrounded by fine restaurants. And from there we continued into the 80’s to the T.
The area has a great vibe. Good music flowing out of the myriad bars and restaurants, people spilling out onto the street, high end malls, and a sense of sophistication that I find in the Northern Mediterranean. Stars hung over the pedestrian street, and everything from the world on sale.
I wish I’d taken more (and better pictures) of the restaurant itself. We dined on the second level, but the first was a joy to behold. A long cooking kitchen, with woks and grills flaming and working away, and s large staff keeping things on the move. I would love to come back here and just eat, drink, and watch that shining, metallic kitchen.
We opened with cocktails. I went for a martini to begin, Bombay Sapphire, dry. Shaken. Two martinis. Properly chill upon arrival, although they’re not into the shaking at the table mode that I’d been observing in Houston.
The cocktail was well executed, with no complaints from my side. My neighbors were having lychee martinis, something they’ve been doing here for quite some time.
For an appetizer, I ordered the steak tartare. This was done with a Columbian/Asian twist of lemon juice, chives (cebollin), cilantro, a bed of zucchini, hot mustard sauce in squirt bottle action, a few sheets of nori, some fried bread (pardon my technical nomenclature there), and a lump of wasabi.
Now, being the critical scum I am, I wasn’t too thrilled with this. It just got a little too busy. Still, it tasted well enough, it wasn’t bad. And by wrapping the tarter up in a nori sheet, it gave a reasonable texture to counter the “wetness” of the thing.
Maybe if they dropped the drizzle? That might’ve just been the “bit too much”.
As I was looking forward to meat, I took the opportunity to call in a Malbec. This was the same one that I’d enjoyed in Bangkok a few months back, and I remembered that, at the time, it had been crying for meat to go with it. This was the meal for this wine (for me).
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the best fit for some of the other dishes on the table. There was very crisply fried kalamari, a technique I wish I could replicate, but I think I’d need one of those jet flame burners I’d seen downstairs to get this right.
And there was also a ceviche. In addition to the lime cooking (not as aggressive as many I’ve had, and so very easy on the teeth), this came with sesame oil, shaved bamboo, and bean sprouts and zucchini in the dish. The fish, corvine, was very fine, with a good texture to the skin holding the tastes together. There was just a slight tang to the front of your mouth in eating this.
In only a day I’ve grown used to this cold, temperate city detached from the sea. The climate is like Vancouver at the start of summer, but here it stays much like this all year long. As we’re told, when the Spanish came here, they found a place with no extremes of temperature, no mosquitoes to torment them, and plenty of water. It does tend to drizzle a lot, though……so they’re ahead of Vancouver with no bugs to annoy you!
I hadn’t thought seafood at first, as I forget that this sophisticated city is the capitol of a country that is bordered by both the Caribbean and Pacific. Heck, Panama was a part of Columbia before it was “detached” in 1903.
I did say something about meat, didn’t I? I was interested in the ribs, they were finished with a glaze of soy, tamarind, and chili, which sounded good.
But I was in the big meat eater mode.
A good cut of veal – Chuleton de Res a la Lena – at 600 grams. This had a good bit of butter in the cooking, and was served with toasted garlic chips, herbs, and pepper.
I was quite satisfied with that.
And this was my first exposure to the potatoes of Columbia. I’ll have more to say about these. For now, I’ll just say they were good.
The rest of the menu was quite interesting, too. Next to me, my neighbor was enjoying a very classical Phat Thai, executed as I’ve seen in Bangkok (how many different ways are there to make Phat Thai? As many as there are Thai grannies, I suspect).
In addition to Thai inspired dishes, there were also traces of Chinese (clay pot dishes) and Japanese (particularly in the fish dishes).
I passed on dessert, not being very sweet in my old age. I did indulge in an espresso and an armagnac – samalens. The coffee itself was a joy. A nice crema, and a taste much different than what I’d grown up thinking of as “Columbian coffee” (as brewed by my mother at all hours of the day).
In all, a good menu, and as I’d said, I loved the sight of their working kitchen downstairs.
Outside the street was alive. A crowd of pedestrians and café dwellers. Our agents stopped from time to time to greet their friends, a slapping of hands and shoulders, and kisses for the women.
I’d hoped to join our other group at the Colon microbrewery, just a block away, but they were already departed (they, too, enjoyed their meal of tapas and small batch beers). Still, it was pleasant to stroll the street, past the vendors selling odds and sods of cigarettes and such, and, while being made well aware of the threat of pickpockets, not being concerned anymore with the threat of bombs of violent muggings.
This was going to be a good trip.
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Bear,
You may well be right, as I don't have my Bourdain with me.
But I do think that the epicurean push here is due in part to a return of expatriate Columbians to their home, from all levels.
Mind you, this links also to the improved security in the country, and the changing attitude of the people, who are looking for a more stable life (as seen in the February 4th march against the FARC).
A stable system draws the expatriates back, and also offers an infrastructure to support better dining.
And, as I never have concerns about appearing frivolous, isn't better dining what civilization is all about?
Travelogue: the Americas (part 2)
in Central & South America: Dining
Posted
Dear Doddie,
Please don't fret about such matters! Just keep reading, and you keep writing! I'm waiting for something to follow up the Peppero thread!
Cheers,
Peter
P.S. - Serena says "hi" to Billy.