1. Walk past the cabbies when you get off the ferry.

You can do this pretty much anywhere in the world, and you’ll save a few bucks. That first guy, the friendly one who’s making you a deal? He’s not. I always forget this. Luckily I travel with people like Bethany or Maya who aren’t as easily walked over as I am. So, keep going. The price will go down.

2. Wait for your food.

“First they wouldn’t give us our food. Then they wouldn’t give us our check.” - Tourists from Rhode Island talking about dining in Nicaragua. Be prepared to wait for your pan-fried meat, plantains, slaw and rice. You’re not in Manhattan. You don’t have a train, bus or show to catch. A sunset, maybe. But Ometepe’s an island. Chances are, you’ll see one from your table.

3. Go on a Guided Hike.

Want to see the top of Concepción? That’s going to be an eight-hour excursion; skip breakfast and leave at dawn. Want to see the crater in the top of Maderas? Same thing. Enjoy the sights, early riser. Want to wake up without an alarm clock, eat an amazing breakfast and only hike for four hours? Tell your hostel/hotel/farm that you’re only kind of hikers and you may get this guy, who will stop for every plantain plantation, donkey and horse you want to capture on camera.

4. Go to Ojo De Agua.

A swimming hole made of a natural spring somewhere between the two volcanoes, this place is part tourist trap, part local water park. When you pay to go in, you’ll feel uneasy about being a tourist, but no worries. Fifty percent of the folks swimming aren’t gringos; you’re going somewhere the locals go! There’s a rope swing. Try it if you’re not too afraid to leave your stuff unguarded. (I am, which is why I don’t enjoy anything. Ever.)

5. Take No Fewer Than 30 Pictures of the Island.

Despite the fact that Nicaragua is relatively inexpensive to travel to (for now), it’s best to desperately photograph Ometepe from the ferry on both the ride to and from the mainland. You may never see it again, and you’re taking a photo that is pretty much guaranteed to get you heralded as a postcard photographer on Facebook upon your return. If you ever get around to posting the best six or eight versions of the scenario. Don’t be afraid to shove others out of the way for the perfect shot.

In the two days we spent exploring Ometepe, an island made of two (one live, one not) volcanoes in Lake Nicaragua (Lake Colcibolca), my favorite moment was the one pictured above. Bethany and I eschewed dinner in favor of two large Toñas while watching the sun set behind (live) Concepción volcano on the front porch of our cabin. To explain why I enjoyed this experience over all others would strip it from its simplicity. Let’s just say this: sometimes it takes two plane flights, as well as a bus ride, ferry ride and two cab rides to get to a place that facilitates conversation—without interruption, without distraction, without Words with Friends. Actual words. With friends.

We stayed on a farm on the east side of Maderas. (She’s the lame volcano, the one we climbed halfway up to take this photo of Concepción.) Using one to get a better sight of the other, the popular one, the pretty one; we were nothing more than a plot line in Sweet Valley Twins.

Complete with its own livestock, our place was the romantic eco-vision of a flitting and garrulous Italian who cooked the best meal I had on the trip. (He was one of two Italians to own organic farms that doubled as lodging on this side of the island.) A very specific category on Ometepe.

The aforementioned meal wasn’t Nicaraguan; I understand that it’s lame that my favorite meal in Nicaragua was an Italian breakfast. But look at it. The fruit couldn’t have been more fresh. I still remember every bite of the mangoes. And the omelette, topped with basil and tomatoes and cheese. So good. And the bread is among the best I’ve had, baked in an outdoor oven, thick with grain. Nutty. Delicious. All served alongside fresh coffee. Can you blame me?

Our Italian host (see him in the center there?) held out on us the second day (a rarity in the way I travel, by the way, the second day). No bread. No mangoes. Instead, pancakes with local honey and preserves. And additional guests at the breakfast table. These people kindly did not memorize my credit card number as I skyped with my bank back home, using our host’s computer. (Someone had forgotten to notify her financial institution that she was leaving the country.)

And here’s the thing about travel. For these people (let’s call them Brooklyn and Rhode Island) it was their first day. As second-day guests, we had the authority to guide their afternoons, to say, Go Here and Try This and Stay Away From This.

But we kept the best thing to ourselves. Sit on the front porch, talk, drink, stare at the volcano until you forget that its the most incredible thing you’ve seen all day. Because, well, they’ve got to discover some secrets on their own.

Hotel Finca Del Sol
Santa Cruz,
Del Empalme, 350 metros al Este.
Isla de Ometepe
505.8364.6394

1. I’m broke.

I recently moved, as you may recall, and as a result, my living expenses have nearly doubled. I’m working fewer hours at a lower rate than I have in the past couple of years, even though I’m juggling multiple gigs—and one of my (former) primary clients is declining to pay me without some major teeth-pulling. All of that means that I’m eating out a lot less than I have been—my splurges these days are crappy Chinese takeout and the $5 lunch special (below) from the Jamaican place on my corner—and I’m cooking a lot more pantry-based, clean-out-the-fridge style meals.

How often can one write about bean soup, or dal, or various grain-based salads? And how often does anyone else want to read about these things? There’s a limit, right?

2. I’ve lost my cooking mojo.

We’ve touched on the idea that Jill and I have different approaches to cooking: I normally favor recipe-culling, list-making, then shopping, while she prefers to stroll through the store, pick out something that looks good, then find (or create) a recipe to suit whatever ingredients she’s chosen. The latter approach is the one that most real chefs claim to prefer; I’ve recently attempted to follow suit, but my experiences prove that I’m not even close to being a real chef. When left to my own devices, I’m fairly useless. Case in point: Just a few weeks ago, I sautéed an entire bunch of spinach that tasted of nothing but salt—the whole lot wound up in the garbage.

Granted, I have had a few triumphs. This pasta—inspired by Frankies 457′s cavatelli with brown butter and sage—was a winner. Maybe ill-advised as a 3 a.m. snack, but a winner nonetheless. Even so, I just haven’t been blown away by anything I’ve cooked lately, and as a result, I’m less than excited to talk about it. Which leads me to…

3. I’m uninspired.

Maybe I was never quite as creative as I’d like to think, maybe my creativity has taken a sabbatical, maybe it’s an old-fashioned case of writer’s block; any way you cut it, I’m feeling very “been there, done that” about my contributions to this blog. I’m getting very little joy out of the process these days, and I can’t expect anyone to be excited about content that makes me feel like a sleepwalker while I’m writing it. If I’m not excited about what I’m cooking or where I’m eating, it comes through in my posts—or lack thereof.

4. I canceled my cable.

This seems counterintuitive: Most people become more productive when they cancel their cable, not less. Unfortunately, I cut the cord, but I haven’t managed to kick the television habit—my addiction to 90210 reruns knows no bounds.

I watch everything online now, and while that means I’m on the computer and could therefore be writing even more, it also means it’s harder to multitask. A little bit of self-control would go a long way in this regard, but I’m too ADD (admittedly, self-diagnosed) these days to write without the external stimuli.

5. Fine. Maybe I’ve just been a little depressed.

This one is hard to talk about without sounding completely melodramatic, so please bear with me.

I’ve made some hard decisions in the past year, and I know that they’re the right ones; still, though, on those days when I’m wallowing, when I stop to compare my life now and then, the sense of loss can be paralyzing. Add to that the current financial strain, the stress inherent in finding, keeping, and getting paid for freelance work, and the feeling that unless I make a major change I’ve reached the end of the line, career-wise, and you have one overwhelmed soon-to-be 34-year-old. Which is why I couldn’t help but laugh—ruefully, but with some relief—when I spotted the work pictured above on a recent High Line stroll. I might feel like things are completely out of control, but at least I’m not the only one.

My Cincinnati experience, prior to this short visit, had been limited to several reception hall weddings, Mt. Adams and the Great American Ballpark. At first glance, Over-the-Rhine was adorable. I quickly made a mental note to return, without the pressure of catching a view of the opening pitch. (We didn’t, by the way. I never make it to baseball games on time. Never.) We missed the beginning of the game for good reason. Senate’s wares and beverages were grand enough to distract Ben from his beloved Giants for at least one inning.

The restaurant’s menu of upscale street food taunted us with dozens of dishes that we just didn’t have time to try. We settled on two hot dogs and one starter, a green corn tamale I’d spied at a neighboring table. To choose the tamale meant to pass over a pork belly bahn mi, crispy pig tails and a lobster BLT. I think we made the right choice, though. Inside the husk, we found masa kissed with sweet corn. On its own, the starchy dough was bland, but when combined with the flavors enveloping our wrapper, the dish became exciting. Bite-size morsels of cilantro, goat cheese, tomato, perfectly-sauteed red onion, avocado and a spicy sauce easily made this starter my favorite of Senate’s offerings.

Ben’s hot dog of choice was the Dan Korman, featuring a house-made lentil and bean sausage topped with all sorts of freshness atop. The first bite was a salad on a bun: spicy arugula, my beloved goat cheese, pickled onions and shaved fennel. Going deeper into the dog, the crunchy lentils (with the texture of nuts) disappointed. I wanted something different. I wanted a hot dog.

It’s appropriate, then, that my choice was lacking in everything Ben’s was abundant. I ordered the Croque Madame because I’m a sucker for anything with a poached egg. Especially an all beef hot dog. Served on a brioche bun and topped with béchamel and salty ham, each bite of the dog was incredibly rich. It could have used something healthy or acidic to break through the fat, but in all fairness, the dog was simply living up to its namesake; the French sandwich eschews all and any green. A note on brioche: A French major I knew in college once told me that Marie Antoinette’s original statement was “Let them eat brioche.” While I love me some cake, I’d happily take brioche as a substitute.

(In an effort to soak up all of that beloved yolk, I accidentally ate some of the paper wrapper from this knife and fork hot dog.)

With two beers and tip, our bill was $51.60, just a tiny bit more than ballpark prices. But it’s safe to say that Senate offers up exponentially more than anything we’d find at the ballpark — or even Columbus. The restaurant showed more potential than our dear Giants did that evening. (They lost to the Reds while we sat in the rain.) We’re not fair-weather fans — nor are we fickle eaters. We’ll be back to Senate (and Over-the-Rhine) to try the rest of what’s on offer. Next time, without the restraints of the National League schedule.

Senate
1212 Vine Street
Cincinnati, Ohio
513.421.2020

Bethany and I arrived in Nicaragua armed with a tiny Spanish dictionary and 40 or 50 handmade flash cards with useful phrases, provided by Spanish-speaking friends of ours. My fluency in the language is questionable at best, and all-reliant upon my memories of my C+ average Spanish classes in 1995 and 1996. For the most part, the cuisine of Nicaragua seemed to be free of meat. Despite this, and despite the notecard and the fact that vegetariana is one letter away from the English version of the word, I messed up the phrase without fail, talking around it whenever possible.

Mi amiga no me gusta carne, I’d explain while pointing at Bethany with her fancy eating habits. Directly translated, My friend, I don’t like meat. Not confusing at all.

Chants of no carne and pescado bien (fish well) became part of my vernacular for the entire eight-day trip, as we negotiated through the restaurants, stalls and markets of Nicaragua and Costa Rica. And so we’d push through eating anything that looked interesting. If it had meat, I’d try it alone. If the vendor could sufficiently reassure us that the wrapped pastry had just cheese (solomente queso), we’d both give it a shot. More often than not, we’d ask what something was and not understand any part of the response. Escribe por favor (writes, please) was my broken Spanish request that my patient Nica friend write down the name of our item for future research. And that is how tiny scraps of paper got shoved into pockets of my bag, worn through, ripped, torn and otherwise destroyed before I could transfer the data to a more reliable source, such as my journal or iPhone. (Journals and tiny pieces of paper do not have batteries that need to be recharged.)

Morning starts early in Nicaragua. The sun and sounds of children playing more often than not replaced the need of an alarm clock. (Another tool the iPhone provides, if needed; I remember the days of the “travel alarm clock.” I am old.) A sign that we were almost always in a city: we were never woken by a rooster. Maybe Nicaragua’s poultry are more polite than others we’ve encountered in our travels. On our first morning, we woke up at 6 a.m. at Hostel Oasis, eager to explore the city.

The city, for the most part, was not ready for us. We wandered the streets, waiting for things to open, while taking photos of the brightly colored Spanish buildings and doing our best to get the expansive churches in one shot. Our self-guided stroll through Granada was completely lacking of any context. Twice, we stood in front of the church whose tower we would later seek out with the help of a tour guide wearing a Detroit Lions baseball cap. (It turns out that he likes the Yankees. When I asked for a discount — because of his taste in baseball teams — he laughed. I know enough Spanish to be funny if I try. And more than enough to be funny when I don’t try.)

Even with half a day, we found plenty to eat, with the help of a market stroll and an authentic Nicaraguan breakfast joint. Granada introduced to us jocote, gallo pinto, morcilla, queso frito and plátanos fritos. Let’s take a look.

Jocote

I can’t remember how much we paid for our bag of jocote, but it wasn’t much. Served with salt and vinegar (which was a distant reminder of bus fare from the Philippines, another one-time conquest of Spain) these unripe plum-shaped fruits had the consistency of apples and lacked distinctive flavor. Someone would later refer to the fruit as plums. After trying a few pieces each, we handed the remainder of our bag to a girl inside a Catholic (is there any other kind?) church.

Morcilla

The flavor of the tough meat thing that I bought from the market only seems familiar now that I know what it is. As the carnivore in the journey it was my duty to try the the unnamed bite-size morsel served with vinegar-laden cabbage. It was familiar, but I couldn’t name why.

Turns out I was eating morcilla, a blood sausage with a rice filler (a distant relative to the Filipino dish dinuguan.) My lazy wikipedia research shows that blood sausage (or black pudding) has variants around the world. Maybe next time, I’ll recognize them upon first bite.

Gallo Pinto, Queso Frito and Plátanos Fritos

We had our one and only Nicaraguan breakfast at Querube’s, a small and accommodating sit-down restaurant close to the market. (Once you select your seat, an overhead fan will be turned on directly above the table; it’s the microclimate of air conditioning.) This meal remains one of Bethany’s favorites of the trip.

First up, gallo pinto, or rice and beans. In this version, the two made-for-each-other ingredients are pan-fried and seasoned with tomatoes. We encountered several types of gallo pinto in both Nicaragua and Costa Rica, but Bethany’s taste buds are unequivocally accurate; the every-meal dish peaked at Querube’s.

Next, queso frito, or fried cheese. This salty block of fried cheese was generally offered in place of a meat-based protein in vegetarian meals wherever we dined in Nicaragua. I abandoned mine after a few bites; I found the pork chop-like texture off-putting. Cheese, in general, was a bittersweet experience for me in Central America. While cuajada (the specific type of cow’s milk cheese that we had most often) was in abundance, its almost-spoiled-milk flavor never grew on me. Seeing the giant blocks displayed in the market, though, was fascinating.

Almost every meal included a variation of fried plantains (plátanos fritos) and this Nica breakfast was no exception. Crispy on the outside and sweet and soft in the middle, these could easily be mistaken for bananas.

Breakfast was also served with two eggs (nothing new here), hot sauce, ketchup and fresh mango juice. The juices of both Nicaragua and Costa Rica remain one of the things that I miss the most, now that I’m settled back into my daily routine.

Querube’s doubled as a street vendor as well, selling its wares to passers-by who did not require table and fan service. (Shameless plug: Folks who “like” Itinerant Foodies on Facebook may recognize this image from the trip.)

Mystery Food

We closed our adventures in Granada by boarding the chicken bus to Rivas, a stop on the way to Ometepe, our second destination of the trip, and I’ll close this post with a mystery bus food and a Facebook post. While the chicken, cabbage and corn tortilla snack I purchased from a bus vendor was delicious, it was a little difficult to eat. I placed the chicken bones in a tiny plastic bag in an outside pocket of my purse and instantly forgot about them. Until the next day.

Behold, my Facebook post:

Voted most likely to carry around chicken bones in her purse. Also voted most likely to forget about the chicken bones. Guess who doesn’t forget about chicken bones? One Million Tiny Nicaraguan Ants. On the plus side, I showered this morning with a frog.

Querube’s
Calle el Comercio
across from El Tiangue #1
Granada, Nicaragua
505.2552.7141

Disappointed, yet still hungry, I followed the natural progression of logic and decided to make a Moroccan dish featuring chicken thighs and chickpeas.

The book called the dish “deceptively easy.” I would label the recipe forthright. There’s nothing tricky about the one-pot concoction containing chicken, zucchini, chickpeas, tomatoes and stock adorned with the seasonal quartet of cumin, cardamom, cinnamon and cayenne. Season and sear the chicken, add the vegetables and stock and cook for twenty minutes. Bam. The rich stew-like dish is accented with lemon juice that brings it all an edge.

Two tips from the learned. (Perhaps this is the deceptive part?) Don’t overcook, or the zucchini will become a roux. And read the intro paragraph. It wasn’t until I was finished that I realized the dish was to be served with rice or couscous. I quickly substituted the ever-popular quinoa without consequence.

Chicken Thighs with Chickpeas
from The Best Recipes in the World, by Mark Bittman

8 chicken thighs, about 2 pounds
salt and black pepper, to taste
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon cayenne, or to taste
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 medium zucchini, trimmed and cut into chunks
1 cup drained canned chickpeas
1 cup peeled and seeded tomatoes (canned are fine)
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice, or to taste
chopped fresh cilantro leaves for garnish

Remove the skin from the chicken. Combine the salt, pepper, cumin cardamom, cinnamon and cayenne and rub this mixture all over the meat.

Put the oil in a deep skillet or flameproof casserole, preferably nonstick, with a lid. Turn the heat to a medium-high and wait a minute or so, until the oil is hot. Add the chicken, smooth side down, and brown it lightly, rotating and turning the pieces as necessary, about 10 minutes.

Add the zucchini. Raise the heat to high and cook, stirring occasionally, until the zucchini begins to brown, about 10 minutes. Add the chickpeas and tomatoes and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes; do not let the mixture dry out completely.

Add the stock and bring to a boil; turn down the heat, cover and cook for about 20 minutes, or until the thighs are tender and cooked through. Season with lemon juice, salt and pepper; taste and adjust the seasoning, then garnish and serve.

Today’s Friday Five is a quick peek of our fleeting visit to three areas in the Southwest region of Nicaragua.

1. Granada’s Market.

With only half a day to experience the famous Spanish colonial city of Granada, we placed a visit to the market on top. Piles of produce (some recognizable, some not), clothing and countless street food temptations sang to us as we wandered the streets of the sixteenth century city.

2. La Merced Church Bell Tower.

Every tourist that comes through Granada is almost required to pay the $1 (U.S.) fee to climb the narrow spiral staircase up to the bell tower of La Merced. Not every traveller chooses to photograph construction. But that’s how I roll. Note the many modes of transportation on Granada’s street below: horses and motorcycles were as common as cars on our Central American journey.

3. The Ferry To Ometepe.

Lake Nicaragua (or Lake Coliciboca) is one of the largest inland lakes in the world and the largest lake in Central America. It wasn’t the size of the lake that drew us to its shores, but what is in it. Just one hour (by ferry) away from land is Ometepe, an island that consists of two volcanoes. Complete with permaculture farms, a live volcano and ages-old petroglyphs, this island was a must-see on our Nicaragua itinerary. And we weren’t alone. The ferry ride was filled with passengers, luggage and materials needed from the mainland.

4. Our Cabin at Hotel Finca Del Sol.

One of my favorite evenings of the trip was spent drinking beers on the front porch of this volcano-side cabin. $55 (breakfast included) via Paypal gained us access to the swanky eco-abode. A few more dollars bought us two big bottles of Cerveza Toña. Next time, though, we’ll remember to ask for a beer opener (or better yet, pack one) before embarking on the quarter mile hike down the volcano from “concierge.” We made do with a belt buckle (and learned a new skill, as well).

5. San Juan Del Sur.

See that silhouetted figure on the hill on the right? That’s Jesus, watching over the party town and expatriate surfing hub of San Juan Del Sur. (A closer view of the statue might remind one of another gigantic Jesus that we would have likely seen if we’d had more time and money.) While the image seems tranquil, there’s nothing — not even a yoga class — that was calm for this anxious traveller. Stay tuned for stories from San Juan Del Sur, involving police, a fugitive, angry men with baseball bats, a near-death yoga experience and a failed attempt at nachos.

Bethany (of Tanzania and Philippines fame) will be joining me on this new adventure, and I’m hoping that her complete understanding of “island time” will balance out my we-need-to-be-there-four-days-early-to-catch-the-bus mentality. We’ve been working for months on the trip, interviewing friends who have been before, scouring the backpacking message boards and trying to learn some last-minute Spanish. (Thanks to two years of Spanish in 1995 and 1996, the burden of language is on my shoulders for this trip. In the past, I’ve had the luxury of Bethany pre-learning the local dialect prior to my arrival. There will be a lot of grunting and pointing, I fear.)

Speaking of fears, I’ve decided to compile a picture gallery of ways I may die during this trip. Just to give you some insight into my mind. You’re welcome.

1. The Plane Ride

Photo: live.drjays.com

I’ve never died in a plane crash before, but there’s always room for firsts.

2. Hiking A Volcano

Photo: Destination360.com

Not so worried about the erupting part. It’s more the extreme heat, passing out because I don’t have enough water and also, why did I think I was athletic enough to attempt a six-hour hike anyway? (P.S. Have no idea which volcano this is.)

3. Surfing Lessons

Photo: balisurflessons.com

I seriously doubt that I will be able to get to the point of standing up on a surf board. I will likely drown because I fall down in two inches of water with the surf board on top of me and I am too weak to push it off. Then I will be devoured by bull sharks.

4. Bull Sharks

Photo: Brian J. Skerry

Did you know that there are bull sharks off the Pacific coast of Nicaragua? Did you know that they like to eat people? I didn’t, until I started doing research. This is one of those cases where diligently reading everything I can does not lead to me feeling safer.

5. Yoga Injury

If it can happen, it will happen to me. Namaste.

6. Mountain Roads

It’s amazing that I did not die on the mountainous roads of the Philippines. Which means it’s inevitable that I’ll meet my demise on the hills of Costa Rica. Though probably not in a Toyota and most likely not in a puddle. We’re definitely going to fly over some poorly built railing on a steep hillside in chicken bus of some sort.

7. Zip Lining in Costa Rica

Photo: Fun-Costa-Rica-Vacations.com

Last year, I went to Zoombezi Bay. A waterpark. For children. As soon as I got over the whole “walking around in a swimsuit in public” thing, I decided it was time to try a water slide. For children. I got to the top, looked down the slide and froze. (This wasn’t those scary body slides we’re talking about; I was terrified of a slow-coasting raft ride.) I then walked down all the steps, past all the children and made it to the bottom to meet my brave slide-riding friends. They then joined me as I went straight to the bar for (expensive) liquid courage. If Costa Rica has a beer station on one of those tree platforms, I’ll be absolutely fine.

8. Missing My Flight

Photo: Alamy

I’m not sure how I think that I’ll die if I miss my flight on the way back home, but this is my most consistent travel fear. Some one is going to find my body at SJO, sunburnt and lifeless. They’ll look at me and shake their heads in sadness. “Poor dear, she missed her flight. If only she’d known more Spanish, if only she’d shown up twelve hours early.” (Photo credit here. Because this one looks professional.)

There’s some good news here, though. There is one way that I will not die on this trip. It’s the one thing that’s kept me safe in all my travels. Like Maya’s watch that lands planes, I have a secret weapon against all bad things.

Photo: Istockphoto.com

This fanny pack, my friends, will be on me at all times. Surfing, sleeping, ziplining, whatever. And it will keep me safe. And fashionable. And I will survive this trip and come back and write about the food, the coffee and the adventures. And I’ll forget that I ever thought I was going to die. And all will be good. I’ll see you on the other side (of this trip).

P.S. If you’re thinking about breaking into my house while I’m gone, please note that I have hundreds of roommates who have thousands of friends who are ALWAYS there. So, suck it.

I’m hungry.

Two things changed. First, this damn locavore movement. I’d made some recent life decisions that propelled me from everything I’d known for three years. (I left a church.) Somehow I knew that my next step in life would involve community and food. I whimpered a few blocks over to my friend Susan (a master of both) who thrust that Pollan book into my hands. I’d be studying a new gospel.

Second, a prescription. Over the years, my experimentation with fresh produce brought me to an understanding with the Lord that heartburn and itchy lips were a sign from above that I should not veer from my butter-rosemary-garlic-chicken-pork diet. In an act of defiance, I stumbled from my faith in pork and tried modern science. And my doctor giveth me Prilosec. And I was happy. (And fatter; not only could I consume tomatoes without pain, but also white wine: an entire food group I’d been fasting from for years.)

And guess what? Now I like salads! (And butter-rosemary-garlic-chicken-pork. You can like both! There’s a gray area in life, a concept that I’ve paid many a shrink to help me discover.)

There’s also a pink area. And a gooey and awesome bright yellow area, once you break open that heavenly soft poached egg (that somehow went straight from one of God’s creatures and directly into the kitchen at Sage American Bistro). This, friends, is my favorite salad in Columbus. It combines animals and plants. There’s no dilemma here: just eat it in a way that doesn’t involve lifting the plate and dumping it directly into your mouth. Try to use utensils. Each bite magically contains hearty smoky bacon in thick but bite-size pieces, that aforementioned warm egg, soft hidden morsels of goat cheese, pickled onion, freshly cracked peper and a tangy dressing. It’s cool. It’s warm. All salads should be like this. And once Michael Pollan is President of Food, Chef Glover needs to be given some sort of cabinet position involving pork.

My one year of Girl Scouts taught me procrastination (I never did sew on any of those badges) and a song: Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver but the other’s gold. This is the silver salad, a new one to cross my palate. Named in honor of the spinach growers, this Wayward Seed Farm-based salad is currently found at Latitude 41.* Textured and inconsistent in size, this spinach is the real thing (and a gentle reminder that it’s kind of creepy that mass-produced food somehow comes out of the ground in the same shape, size and color). Paired with smoky heart of palm, citrus, edamame the color of Spring and lightly dressed, this (presumably vegan) salad comes out having a sort of meaty flavor. If that’s possible. With a good chef and locally grown ingredients, all things are possible, right?

* It’s rumored that dear Chef David MacLennan is leaving. These are my food prayers for Latitude 41. One: That Chef MacLennan lands in a creative kitchen somewhere in Columbus, so that I can continue to eat his incredible food. Two: That whoever fills his void is as inspirational as he has been. Three: That the marketing angels that oversee the Latitude 41 website will remove the music from the front page, and let them not judge my motive in saying this. I am not bitter that while every other woman from my table the evening that video was shot is shown smiling and drinking, I am glaringly absent. I get it. I looked homeless. Homeless people don’t look sexy on restaurant websites. Just lose the music, okay? Amen.

P.S. I do show up on the site in this slide show. See all the sleek people? I’m next to them.

Sage American Bistro
2653 North High Street
Columbus, Ohio
614.267.7243

Latitude 41
50 North 3rd. Street
Columbus, Ohio
614.233.7541