Ein Prosit in the Mountains of Avon

On a self-imposed writing retreat I journeyed to Avon, Colorado, just West of Vail and equally idyllic in the alpine sense. Upon arrival, I unpacked, neatly arranged all of my things (which I believe my wife calls “nesting” in a hotel room, a throwback from my prior heavy travel days for work) and promptly banged out 4 pages of new material. Then I realized I had a quandary: I was hungry but also wanted to go for a walk, after hours of sitting and driving followed by sitting and typing. So I munched on a quick snack from my road trip supplies, enough to take the edge off, and set out from the resort with a plan to stroll and then return to my room for a pizza dinner.

Pathway behind my resort flanked by sculptures.

Happily, this plan was thwarted. Avon is charming. The pathway I found through aspens and evergreens, wending past other resorts and restaurants, boasted blooming tulips and a series of bronze sculptures of children, families , and animals frolicking. My favorite was the cowboy roping the wild mustang until I came across the herd of wild horses in a roundabout.

I also learned that I was within two minutes’ walk of a winery (Vin 48), a pizza joint (Pazzo’s Pizza), an Italian place (Ticino) and a barbecue restaurant (Montana’s Smokehouse). But the best discovery was next to a coffee shop slash bistro, which had originally caught my attention (Loaded Joe’s). I was contemplating the bistro menu, considering a mocha latte and a sandwich, when I noticed Ein Prosit next door. Their wide patio with outdoor heaters, firepits, plenty of picnic tables and Adirondack chairs was enticing, as was their happy hour sign. I wandered in and checked out the meat case which was front and center by the bar. They had Bavarian salted pretzels, a variety of fine German beers on tap, and an overwhelming array of bratwurst choices (including wild game sausages; I counted 18 different types before I gave up). The smells were heavenly – aromas of robust meats and seasonings and a waft of quality beer each time the barkeep poured.

Doggo visitor who greeted me at the door!

Thoroughly hooked, I ordered the special of the day: bacon and cheddar brat (though the mac n cheese meat tube gave me serious pause). It came with coarse stone ground mustard and sauerkraut, and the welcoming bartender offered the Stiegl (per their website: a Light refreshing Pilsner style Lager) though she let me also taste the Oktoberfest (Hofbrau Marzen: Marzen Oktoberfest bier – amber malty Lager). Both were balanced, refreshing, delightful. This was a truly difficult decision but I went with the Stiegl, which turned out to be a great foil for the juicy, cheesy brat. The sauerkraut topping did not appeal, but I loved the stone ground mustard and added a bit of Mady’s mustard to my tray as well. For my last bite of brat, I mixed both mustards and regretted immediately not discovering that combination at the beginning of the meal.

Bacon and cheddar brat with all the appropriate condiments.

All of this was for less than twelve bucks. I was so surprised at the small tab, this being a resort town and all, that I asked the bartender if she forgot to charge me for the beer. No, she said, happy hour prices! A lovely surprise. My walk back to the resort was leisurely; I Facetimed my family to tell them of my little find and enjoyed the birdsong all around and budding apple perfuming the air as the sun set. Will I return to Ein Prosit before my four day sojourn is over? Highly likely!

Good Eats Motivated by a Noble Mission

Longmont locals know of the Roost as a go to for excellent libations and an innovative menu. In recent years the owners added a roof-top patio, cementing its status as a top choice for gatherings of friends after a long work week, a date night outing, or family-friendly hangout on a sunny Colorado afternoon.

But before I start crowing about their Pork Belly and Bang Bang Cauliflower appetizers, however, I feel compelled to share that the owners’ backstory isn’t a typical “former software exec decides to quit corporate America to pursue his/her true passion and open a restaurant” situation. This venture was conceived around a message of hope, as you can read in greater detail on their About page. In short, the Roost is a realization of the dreams of two families, the Gafners and the Lances, who shared a calling to help families who wanted to adopt children but financially were unable to do so: “The Roost has committed from day one to giving 10% of their profits to helping families in the process of adoption. They have started a partnership with Colorado Kids Belong to help Colorado children and youth who are impacted by foster care.”

The story behind the restaurant and owners dedicated to helping families.

I didn’t know about this mission the day I wandered in to sample their offerings, but found out after a delicious meal of Candied Bacon Sliders, while on my way to the exit. There, behind the hostess station, I noticed the wall adorned with photos and the same story of their philanthropic mission that you can also read on their website. I already knew I’d come back again and again before I learned about their vision (so many tasty things on their menu to try!) but this inspired me and cemented my loyalty to this elegant but cozy local venue that offers food to feed both your body and your soul.

Now on to the delights which comprise the menu. If I was forced to pick a top three (which I am now finding exceedingly difficult), the Smoked Quinoa Bowl is at the top from an entrée perspective: well-balanced flavors, with a delicate blend of warm spices, creamy squash and quinoa crunch, and topped with a generous amount of goat cheese for tart contrast. I prefer it with the grilled chicken, though trying this dish with salmon or shrimp are part of my future plans.

For those seeking heartier fare, the Short Rib Sandwich delivers. I’m a sucker for a good demi-glaze, but throw in roasted mushrooms and beef ribs so tender one can tell they’ve been lovingly braised for eons, and I am transported to the next level of culinary bliss. And, the Roost’s signature tots are a must on the side. If you wind up taking half of it home – it is quite filling – the flavors are even more intense and delightful the next day.

Short Rib Entree – the dinner alternative to the delectable lunch sandwich.

To round out my menu top three: the Polenta Bites. The chefly genius behind these should be commended. Crisp on the outside, gooey soft on the inside, drizzled with balsamic and smoked tomato puree, with an abundant helping of goat cheese crumbles, this appetizer is a do-not-miss. The perfect forkful includes a crisp corner of the polenta cake, a bit of goat cheese, and as much of the sauces one can mop up from the plate. All I can say is, it’s good I’m not a local in this neighborhood. If I had easy access to such a treat on a daily basis I’d have to invest in a new (bigger-waisted) wardrobe.

Looking for a new food obsession? Try the Polenta Bites with goat cheese, balsamic drizzle, and a house smoked tomato puree.

Honorable mention must be made for the following: the Fried Brussels sprouts – crispy leafed, beautifully seasoned, with finger-licking good vinaigrette; Bangin’ Cauliflower – made famous on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives, the spice and crunch are addicting and an excellent vegan alternative to Buffalo wings (order two portions to make a meal); the Ponzu Pork Belly – rich, smoky, decadent; Grilled Avocado – creamy, slightly charred, with house made tortilla chips; and the Thai Pork Tacos – summery fare with a harmonious blend of cilantro, spice, and minty ginger-lime crema to cool it off.

As I mentioned previously, the Candied Bacon Sliders are so good you’ll try to stop at one or two for decorum’s sake and quickly scrap the idea. I’m not ashamed to admit I ordered this appetizer for lunch when I met a friend recently, and polished off the whole thing myself. Three juicy mini beef patties on slider buns buttered and toasted just-right, topped with tangy blue cheese, a scrumtious onion jam, and fragrant garlic aioli. Very satisfying and on my repeat cravings list.

A wide array of libations are available for happy hour or anytime.

If you’re ever in the mood for carry-out on a Friday night, and your ultimate destination is a couch at home, a thick blanket, and Netflix binging, pick up their Shrimp and Bacon Mac to fortify you. The portion is more than enough for two, so invite a cuddle-buddy or look forward to leftovers (with another round of Netflix?) the following day.

The Roost’s main room has garage door style windows that are open on mild days for an al fresco dining feel.

Suggestions for libations on the dining room wall.

Honestly, their rock-solid menu has yet to disappoint and I’ve dined at the Roost dozens of times over the last three years. Several entrees are in the realm of excellent, and many fall into the category of tasty comfort food I must have again and again. Combined with their behind-the-scenes passion for giving back and supporting families in need of help navigating such an emotional, challenging process as adoption, well – I think there aren’t enough stars in the rating system to truly express how highly I think of this lovely Longmont establishment.

*****

Update March 6, 2021: Dined at The Roost today for lunch with my mother and daughter, and discovered a several new menu items. Haitian Chicken – something to write home about, order this immediately, you won’t regret it. This dish includes a quarter chicken (leg, thigh) marinated in delicious citrus flavors, on a bed of white rice and black bean puree, topped with a fresh cucumber and tomato salad. It’s not an exaggeration to say this is the best thing I’ve eaten in Longmont in ages. Honorable mention: the Steak Frites my kid ordered (she has a very mature palate). Topped with candied bacon and garlic sauce, the frites are tender and satisfying, and her steak was cooked to a perfect medium with a carmelized crust that was more than just eye candy. I pilfered as much as I could from her plate before I felt guilty; note to self, order this on the next visit. Mom’s The Roost Burger with crispy onion strings and garlic aioli topping, and a side of parmesan garlic tots, was also quite tasty, per her commentary. Afterwards, we barely managed the Apple Tart Tartine and Carrot Cake with vanilla ice cream and candied walnuts for dessert, but somehow we did manage. I may not eat again for days, but this was foodie bliss. Well done, The Roost. You continue to impress!

Sugar Pine: A Charming Gem in a Unique Colorado Neighborhood

Discovering Sugar Pine Grocery is the culinary highlight of my fall. This is not an overstatement, and my three visits and counting should make it clear that I’ve developed a full blown obsession. But let me back up…

One afternoon I was kid-free, thanks to my wonderful mother, and found myself scrounging for something to do. Anything really, to feel like I’d achieved “me time” in this two hour reprieve. After a somewhat disappointing non-hike with my dog Stella – I had geared up for leaf-peeping and elevation gain, toting a camelback loaded with H20 and snacks, my hiking boots ready for action, only to find my Google-researched destination that day was a perfectly flat lakeside stroll through a neighborhood – I was bummed out. No other way to say it. Stella looked disappointed too, accustomed to hiking mountainous terrain with me on a regular basis. Time was ticking and I knew there was no way to divert to a familiar trail and squeeze in a serious hike at that point. I was also hungry. Where could I go to shake off my frustration, and possibly grab a tasty bite?

I remembered fondly the little community of Prospect, nestled in the southeast corner of Longmont, with its colorful and widely varied architecture, cute shops, and grassy open spaces often graced with a food truck or two. This oasis was only minutes away. Reinvigorated, I tossed my gear into my Subaru, shedding the camelback and boots in favor of flip flops. I parked Stella in the back seat, and took off.

One of several open park areas for the residents of Prospect.

Cruising through Prospect I was delighted to see fall and Halloween decorations everywhere, as well as American flags proudly waving and yard signs promoting tolerance and respect for people of all races and creeds. Inflatable ghouls, skeletons, black cats, and spooky spiderwebs adorned many a shrub, tree, and porch. My drive around the small neighborhood yielded no food trucks, to my disappointment, but I enjoyed the abundance of vivid red and orange fall leaves covering the sidewalks. I decided to park and stroll, to gain a better look at the residents’ festive decorations. As I meandered, Stella frolicked beside me, her paws crunching in the leaves. I recalled that somewhere up ahead was a barbecue joint that had pretty good brisket, last time I visited. My stomach grumbled and I was pleased to finally have a mission.

Delicious smells teased my nose as I approached the corner of Coffman Street and Tenacity Drive. Did I mention Prospect has brilliantly named drives, such as Tempted Ways, Confidence, and Half Measures? Along with Neon Forest and Incorrigible Circle. If you visit the Prospect Website, they are the self-proclaimed “Coolest Neighborhood in America” and I have to agree – the experimental architecture is of every flavor and of such unique design, I’ve been enamored of this place since they built it. But I digress. Back to the amazing aromas that led me by the nose to the now former location of the Rib House in Prospect. That business, I learned, shuttered years ago, to be replaced by Sugar Pine Grocery and Catering. This stumped me for a moment, my brisket craving full-blown after all the walking. Yet as I took in the Sugar Pine storefront I was optimistic about this new find. If you could judge a book by its cover, this small, cozy shop promised good food, hospitality, and fresh produce and bakery treats.

Sugar Pine’s patio was fully decorated for fall, with sheaves of corn stalks, pumpkins, wrought iron tables and red umbrellas, delicate white string lights, and heat lamps at the ready for outdoor diners. A sandwich board sign announced “Lobster Roll Special today”, which clinched it for me. In years past, I had the habit of visiting Maine and Nova Scotia every summer, so know a good lobster roll when I see one. Those travels were log ago and I had yet to find a rave-worthy roll in my land-locked Colorado home.

Pumpkin carving contest display on the Sugar Pine Patio.

Stella wanted to help with the lunch order.

With some effort, I hooked Stella’s leash to the shop’s patio fence. She was convinced she was entitled to go in and put up a bit of a protest. Once she was settled I eagerly stepped inside to order.

Just inside the door I found a center table piled high with organic produce such as fresh pears, peaches, apples, fingerling potatoes, and vividly striped heirloom tomatoes. Baked goods bookended the produce and I immediately began stacking my impulse purchases on the amused cashier’s counter: peanut butter cookies with a chocolate drop in the center, lemon cake, walnut brownies, and even a baked bone-shaped biscuit for my dog. Of course I added a few peaches and a pile of tomatoes, which were firm and bursting with fragrance. The micro cherry tomatoes were sweet flavor bombs (I had to eat a handful right after purchasing).

Bright, clean, airy interior offering a variety of gourmet treats.

I ordered the Maine Lobster Roll, noting for a future return that Connecticut style, served warm in a buttery seasoning, was also available. Some day I’d have to try one, but I’m a diehard Maine roll fan. In my opinion, you can’t beat cold lobster salad with a hint of mayo, squeeze of lemon, sprinkle of fresh herbs, and a toasted butter split roll.

Note to self: Come back and try everything!

A mere five minute wait later and I was dining on just that – an excellent execution of a classic Maine Lobster Roll. They were generous with the lobster meat: claws, knuckles, sweet delectable bits. Expert level on the mayo and herb application (not too much, just enough to hold the whole enterprise together), and the warm bread was soft on the inside with the perfect buttery crunch on the outside. Topped with a squeeze of fresh lemon for tang, and I had to remember to slow down and pace myself instead of inhaling the goodness.

No contest, this is the best Maine Lobster Roll in Colorado.

The mixed greens salad I enjoyed on the side is worthy of mention. Pickled red onion, cherry tomatoes, crisp lettuces, pumpkin seeds, and a tangy vinagrette were a lovely compliment to the richness of my sandwich.

Bounteous cold case with cheeses, meats, dips, veggies, and to-go entrees.

To date I’ve returned to Sugar Pine three times, and each and every time the lobster roll is what I order. To go I’ll take the cookies and produce and fancy cheeses – pro tip: try the herbed chevre or truffled salami in their cold case, or an entree of braised short rib with whipped potatoes – but the Maine roll is what keeps me coming back.

I had the pleasure of meeting the owner, Heather, during one of my visits. Much like her shop, she is cheerful, unassuming, and welcoming. I told her enthusiastically of my obsession with her lobster roll, which she informed me used to be an occasional special and is now permanent on their menu. I almost did a happy jig when she shared that.

At last visit I discovered they’d acquired their liquor license. I convinced my mom to leave the house that day to join me for my now weekly lobster roll ritual and we were pleasantly surprised by the beverage menu. The addition of a sparkling flute of prosecco to our meal was a lovely compliment to the sweet lobster as was the side of hand cut shoestring French fries (also new).

Sugar Pine has figured out the secret formula for a perfect, cozy, neighborhood bistro. Their menu, ambiance, location, and bakery treats all add up to pure magic.

Chicago – Tre

Should I use the word obsession to describe my latest foodie mission? No, I prefer the phrase “single-minded determination.” I have one goal for my latest trip to Chicago, and despite exhaustingly long workdays, a tight schedule, and the potential for a harrowing rush through O’Hare to make my flight home, I am going to make it happen. I will visit the Original Pizzeria Uno, in the heart of downtown.

This effort takes some planning. Conference calls and paperwork dominate my morning at the Residence Inn Chicago/River North (which, might I add, is delightful, with a pillowtop bed and excellent suite layout). The venerated pizza parlor opens at 11am, and my flight is at 2:18pm. If traffic does not cooperate, I’ll be cutting it close on getting through the tangle of security and terminals in sprawling O’Hare airport. I will need to wrap up business matters at 10:30am, call for the valet to retrieve my rental car at 10:45am, start driving from my hotel to the restaurant at 10:55am sharp, walk in when the restaurant unlocks their doors, and pray for fast service.

Fate is on my side this fine morning. All times out well, almost to the minute. Traffic is light, and the labyrinthian parking garage I must navigate (11 stories tall and packed to the gills) doesn’t slow me down. I hustle to the elevator, drop to ground level, and exit to Ohio Street, where I can see the neon Pizzeria Uno sign beckoning a half block away. By 11:03am I am seated and perusing the menu. The hostess kindly sat me up front near the windows, so I have a view of the brick and steel towers surrounding the corner restaurant. Inside is cozy, with red brick walls and vintage painted signs, touting Navy Pier and boasting of the invention of Chicago Deep Dish pizza in this very spot. “Serving the best from 1943”, they proclaim. I keep my order simple – an individual deep-dish pepperoni and a fresh brewed iced tea with lemon (though I do eye their local craft brew list on draft for a wistful moment).

I have time to sit and people watch while waiting for my pie. Taking a breath after a busy week is a rare treat, and as I absently watch the pedestrians outside, I reminisce about my last dinner at Chicago Cut Steakhouse the night before. I met a friend there on her recommendation and was not disappointed. The view of the Chicago River from the venue is impressive, seen through a vast bank of tall windows, with the sparkling city lights reflected in its dark waters lending to the upscale ambiance inside. My dinner included a wedge salad with bacon lardons, cherry tomatoes, and generous Maytag bleu crumbles, followed a neatly stacked tower of cracked, chilled crab legs on a dome of crushed ice with drawn butter and Green Goddess dressing for dipping. My dining companion recommended the crème brûlée, having assured me the desserts were the best thing on the menu. I almost agreed with her, but their unique offering of “lobster escargot” on the appetizer menu was the most unforgettable part of the entire meal for me. The dish was comprised of plump morsels of sweet lobster meat served warm, underneath a bubbling hot blanket of gruyere (enticingly browned on top), in a fanciful escargot serving dish. Airy crostini wafers supported each bite prepared tableside by our server, who expertly fished out the lobster with escargot tongs and arranged it elegantly on our plates. The lot was filling enough that I’d skipped breakfast earlier at the hotel.

My stomach rumbles, and, with excellent timing, my smiling server suddenly appears. After the first taste I know why this place is famous. This is no shopping mall food-court pizza, this is handcrafted, scratch made heaven. The crust flakes as I cut into it, light and airy and buttery. Pepperoni are stacked artistically over the entire top of the pie, concentrically arranged from the center out. The marinara beneath is rich, deep, with a little heat at the end and small chunks of tomato for additional texture. Mozzarella, thick and melty, is the layer underneath that, and each bite I pull away from the pie trails delectable strings I have to wrap around and around my fork to avoid losing even a little bit of goodness. Every element of the dish works together harmoniously and may be the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life. And I have had a lot of pizza in my 44 years. A lot. I’m also a thin crust aficionado, not often inclined to order deep-dish. So that’s saying something.

Individual size deep dish pizza perfection.

As I munch, I notice Pizzeria Due about a block away from my location, diagonally across from where I sit in Uno. The second outpost built by the same owners was created to handle overflow from Uno, as the story goes. Their similar menu features the famous Chicago-style pizza I am currently demolishing, but years ago on a prior visit to the City, I sampled Due and did not feel the same level foodie bliss I do now. The food quality was passable, but here at Uno, well, this is impressive. I could come here every day, I realize, regretting we have nothing on this level back in my home state of Colorado. Each flaky, gooey, saucy morsel reinforces my opinion. I savor the flavors slowly, aware months or years could pass before I get to eat this deliciousness again.

My happy little pizza nirvana must end, however, as flight schedules wait for no one, not even wanderers like me fulfilling a long-standing food quest. As I walk back to the parking garage, I take in the sights of Chicago once more: historic towers of brick and stone, elegant spires and architectural embellishments, modern behemoths of steel and glass that are so tall one has to lean back to take them in fully, risking a dangerous topple into the busy thoroughfares of the city. I can report Chicago drivers pay no heed to pedestrians, so one must be quick and nimble to survive sightseeing during a street crossing. Fortunately, I navigate the perils efficiently and depart the Windy City on schedule. Will I return to Pizzeria Uno? Most definitely.

Kennedy Space Center and Cocoa Beach – the first 24 hours

To say I am looking forward to a week at Kennedy Space Center would be an understatement. Required job training offers me the option to visit San Francisco Airport or KSC in Florida, which for me, isn’t even a question. Though I love SF and the Bay Area dearly, the little kid in me – the dreamer that, like all children my age growing up in Florida, was sure one day I’d become an astronaut (or work at Disney, but I digress) – dismisses the first choice immediately. I am Cape Canaveral bound, and giddy about it.

I fly in on a steamy Monday morning in June and arrive on time in Orlando. My drive east is relatively quick, peppered with brief, heavy tropical showers and glimpses of fragments of rainbows in the sky. Marriott Cocoa Beach, my hotel for the week, is clean, comfortable, spacious. The host checks me in and pleasantly surprises me with an ocean view upgrade on the 6^th floor, complete with balcony and chairs to recline and take in the scenery. I drop my bags and immediately park myself outside. Rain sprinkles the tropical trees and fragrant, vividly colored blooms around me as I watch the waves. I can see the sand is only a few minutes’ walk from where I relax. To the north, the shadowy outline of several Space Center buildings is visible, along with the intermittent flash of warning lights on the towers around the launch pads. I am eager learn more about all of these landmarks in the coming week, from possible new friends at work, or if I find myself with an afternoon free to play tourist.

The view from my upgraded room, complete with a cozy balcony for twilight ocean-gazing.

First order of business though, now that I am here and settled, is finding dinner. A quick Yelp search indicates Long Doggers is nearby, a popular local joint with a beachy feel. I head over and sit outside on their patio, where I can people watch in the shade. Families with kids play games provided by the restaurant, and all around me are people dining on standard issue seaside basket meals with delicious smelling fried things. The décor is like a tiki bar, complete with the mandatory taxidermized marlin, a simply enormous fish that peers down on diners from its perch on a high wall. Straw thatch and carved wooden masks round out the theme. I note a poster proclaiming Trivia Tuesdays and make a mental note. The kids behind me swing a metal ring on a rope and land one on a wall hook, cheering exuberantly. This is a fun spot, and very family friendly.

Family friendly ambiance at Long Dogger’s.

When a server checks on me, I request a Sunshine State Florida Lager, which is very mild and reminiscent of a hefeweizen, but much lighter. Faint hints of banana tease my palate, and the beer is a pretty golden color. I squeeze a bit of lemon in it to jazz it up a bit. Dinner almost was a basket of fish and chips, but at the last moment I switch to healthier, fresher fare: the Desperado Avocado Tuna. The fish is firm, ruby red, and tasty. A subtle heat grows on my tongue as I make my way through the dish, likely from the pleasantly salty soy dressing. Crisp wontons and sesame seeds provide a welcome crunch, as does the simple chopped cabbage slaw underneath the fish. The avocado is the only negative – it is far too green to consume so I set it aside. This is a shame, as I do love the combo of fresh ahi tuna and avocado.

As my dinner so far is quite light, I am tempted to order Peel and Eat Shrimp, a longtime favorite of mine since childhood. I can recall family beach vacations where my Dad and I would share baskets of them at seaside restaurants, before dinner entrees arrived. We could go through a pound of shrimp easily together, and pretty quickly if I do say so, being champion peelers. I give in and order a half pound, which comes out of the kitchen with lightning speed. Soon I am peeling and dousing them with lemon (there’s never enough for me when it comes to shrimp). I dunk the sweet, firm crustaceans in a perfectly spicy cocktail sauce and the zing of horseradish makes my lips tingle. I demolish the lot and call for my check. Stuffed and happy, I make my way back to my hotel. I spend a few moments before bedtime lingering on the balcony, listening to the ocean, as the twilight fades to dusk.

*Long Dogger’s Ahi tuna bowl (above) and peel ‘n’ eat shrimp (below).*

The next morning, I am up bright and early and on the road by 6am, as I’ve been warned by a colleague that the security badging experience required for my entry to the NASA complex is long and involved. I notice the sunrise peeking over the tree-lined horizon, as well as a small gator nonchalantly hanging out on the shoulder of a side road. Osprey glide overhead and land in treetop nests nearby, and vultures wheel in the powder blue sky. This feels like the wilds of the Everglades, but I know the Kennedy Space Center (KSC) is close. I follow my GPS and several helpful roadside signs, driving for miles through uninterrupted wilderness.

As I motor along, I see the distant, looming Vehicle Assembly Building (VAB) and am awed at the sheer size of it. Eventually I find the NASA badging station. I park and contemplate that this campus is enormous and full of contrasts: a vast, green bird and animal sanctuary surrounding buildings housing some of the most advanced technology in the world. True to my coworker’s prediction, I burn no less than an hour wading through the badging process, and this is after background checks that were conducted in the weeks prior. Finally, I am admitted, given clearance through the NASA employee gates, and I park in the lot in the shadow of the VAB. I realize my status quo has reset to “permanently awestruck” as I gaze up at the towering structure. This is where rockets and Space Shuttles have been built for decades. My gawking continues as I am escorted inside the Launch Command Center (LCC) by NASA personnel. The employees display an obvious a sense of pride as they give us a brief tour, talking about the long history of shuttle launches from this very spot, as well as the relatively new arrangement to lease part of their facilities to Space X, which launches space vehicles quite frequently (every few weeks). A few of Elon Musk’s employees stroll by, chatting quietly, their logos brilliantly emblazoned on bright blue corporate shirts. They seem normal to me. I wonder if they are all rocket scientists, or if one of them is just responsible for answering phones, or catering lunches.

Parking at NASA, next to the towering Vehicle Assembly Building.

Our friendly hosts invite us into a conference room lined with pictures of prior shuttles staged for launch on NASA’s most famous pads 39A and B, shuttles in orbit, and various satellites and rockets in flight. Work is punctuated with anecdotes of their histories at NASA, and one break includes a walk to the actual firing rooms on an upper floor. They are not accessible due to strict security measures, but my newfound friends indulge my peering through the (mostly) covered glass door panels to study the consoles inside. We gaze together at 39A and B in the distance from a viewing area in between the firing rooms, where the press historically would gather on launch days.

Clockwise from top left: NASA logo on the Firing Room doors; view of the VAB and LCC; gazing at launch pads 39A and B from the historic press viewing in between the Firing Rooms.

Lunch break finds us at the onsite cafeteria a few buildings away, brushing elbows with multitudes of NASA staff as they wait in line for one of several options: Subway sandwiches, grilled burgers, or Sonny’s Barbecue. We opt for the latter, and I order a Sweet Carolina with a Sidekick. This translates to a pulled pork sandwich with slaw and mustard barbecue sauce, and seasoned, steamed broccoli as a side dish (other options were fries or mac and cheese). I grab an unsweet tea by the pay station, check out, and we take our food to go. The route back to the LCC includes a detour around the VAB, where we see the massive mobile launch pads for the space shuttle, parked like silent sentinels in a vast gravel lot. Again, I notice osprey and this time eagles soaring lazily above. We drive slowly past the shadow of the enormous equipment and one of my new friends from NASA offers a bit of trivia: fully loaded with the space shuttle and fuel the mobile launch pad (aka “crawler”) weighs more than five million pounds!

*Mobile launch pad, formerly used to transport the Space Shuttle to pads 39A and B.*

After wrapping day one at KSC, I drive back to the hotel via 528 to the A1A. Thanks to fortunate timing, I see a dolphin leap in the bay as I cross the bridge. I pass trees holding up big structures of twigs built by nesting bald eagles and see several pairs landing as I pass, perhaps to feed their young ones. I recall one of the NASA team members explained earlier that the KSC campus is also home to roving herds of feral pigs, and Florida panthers. I am not only a space program fan, but a nature lover, so I find each new detail fascinating.

Back at my hotel, I freshen up in minutes and depart for dinner. I briefly contemplate seafood and other ideas, but as soon as I stumble across a Cuban restaurant in downtown Cocoa Beach the decision is made for me. My family is of Cuban descent, and any journey I make to Florida always includes at least one stop at a local purveyor of comida Cubana.

Roberto’s Little Havana is off the main thoroughfare, only five minutes from my hotel, and easy to spot with its red tile roof and stucco walls adorned with striking murals of Cuba. Inside, Roberto himself is perched on a bar stool, talking loudly in Spanish while gesturing vigorously in the air, an old-school house phone at his ear. I can’t help but recall memories of older male relatives in my family with the same mannerisms and (loud) conversation style.

Approaching Roberto’s Little Havana along the main boulevard in downtown Cocoa Beach.

For dinner I deliberate every option, my mouth watering, and reluctantly tell myself not to order everything on the menu. Overhead speakers provide a mournful Spanish love song to set the ambiance, as does the buzz of Spanish from the patrons all around me. I settle on the Bistec con Arroz y Frijoles Negros, with a side of Tostones. Bistec is a steak hammered thin and very tender, well-seasoned, and lightly breaded. My Mom is expert at creating such a dish, and I am eager to sample it here, with the requisite side of black beans and rice. My tostones come out first, and each bite of the salted, fried green plantains, the “Cuban potato chip,” is crispy and addicting. I dip them in the side of mojo my server brings (a decadent, garlicky oil to drizzle on for a punch of extra flavor). Cuban bread accompanies the meal as well – an airy, warm, loaf with a scent that brings me back to my childhood. I’ve attempted to bake Cuban Bread at home in Colorado, but with the altitude as a factor it’s a challenge, and personally I’m convinced the unique flavor is influenced by the local water in Florida. Cuban Bread from anywhere else simply does not taste right.

Cuban delicacies that remind me of childhood and my mother’s home cooking.

When my steak arrives in all its glory, I realize I have enough food in front of me for 3 separate meals. I eat until I can barely move and pack up the leftovers (which are so many I need two boxes). I depart with my riches, though I pause to linger at the inside mural depicting the waterfront of Havana, complete with details of the harbor and a Spanish fort that might be hundreds of years old. Someday I hope to visit Cuba. The painting makes me wistful, thinking of that future trip.

I stop along my route back to the hotel to check if the Publix has Pastelitos de Guayaba for breakfast (a sweet pastry with a flaky crust and guava jelly inside, sometimes cream cheese too). I am not disappointed. I add my treats to the pile of to go boxes and stash all in my room. My tiny hotel fridge is full. I could eat for a week from this bounty. Considering this, I realize I should walk off some of the Cuban calories I consumed, so I make a beeline for the beach. I wander barefoot, enjoying the cool kiss of foamy surf on my toes, and I count the sea turtle nests, a task made easier by the ropes and signs set up to protect them.

Couples stroll hand in hand, watching the sun set. Wisps of long clouds glow faintly in the sky in a formation that conjures a tropical pink aurora borealis. Pelicans float on the waves or wing by silently, skimming the surface of the water. I walk far longer than I had planned, all the way to the Cocoa Beach Pier with its busy traffic and enticing overwater Riki Tiki Bar. Noting the spot, I plan to return when I have more time to enjoy it. I turn around and travel back the way I came, giving in to the occasional impulse to scamper towards the water, then run like a maniac back to higher ground before I get splashed. I am successful about 50 percent of the time.

My jaunt turns out to be 3.5 miles round trip, and I am sweaty and pleasantly worn out when I find the Marriott again. The beach is dark on my way back, as the locals are educated to turn off oceanside lights to avoid confusing nesting sea turtles. I reluctantly find the path back to my hotel parking lot, leaving behind the gentle sound of the waves and the cooling breeze. A gecko clings to a wall and I pause to photograph him. He gives me a skeptical look before he skitters away.

The sight of my room is welcome; I am ready to crash. The humidity squashes my usual M.O. beachside (sleeping with all the windows and doors open, so I can hear the surf) so I crank up the air conditioning and drift off happily. I have four more days here and am excited to see what experiences lie ahead.

Food Truck Tour of Nashville

Honky tonks, country music, and the Grand Ole Opry, Civil War historical sites and monuments – advertisements for all such points of interest beckon the moment I disembark from the jetway at Nashville International Airport. I’m here in Music City for two weeks of technical training, and glance over the posters and digital displays, hoping I have time for at least some of these stops, once work is through. Other signs remind me famous local cuisine includes Nashville Hot Chicken, barbecue, and a wide variety of Southern comfort food. All of which sound fabulous, but unfortunately are not available to me at this late hour. Thanks to thunderstorms in Denver my flight arrives three hours past our scheduled time. I am glad that earlier in the day I stopped by Elway’s in Terminal B for my usual lunch to go order: Steak Salad with Creamy Horseradish Dressing (toppings include sundried tomatoes, candied pecans, chopped bacon, red onion, all crowning a generous portion of arugula, with a filet cooked to a perfect medium). I wistfully think of that long-ago meal as I trudge past closed restaurants and storefronts in the Nashville airport. I’ll have to settle for a granola bar for now. I only briefly contemplate – and dismiss – finding late night Taco Bell or Wendy’s drive thru windows on the way to my hotel. But my spirits lift when I think of opportunities to eat out locally in the upcoming week. I have hatched an idea for a food quest that is not immediately obvious, considering my location. More on that in a moment.

For the next two weeks I will be staying in the affluent suburb of Brentwood, just south of Nashville. I depart the airport and point my rental car in the direction of the Marriott Springhill Suites Brentwood/Nashville. My drive is thankfully short, though I am forced to navigate through a torrential downpour in pitch black conditions interrupted by uncomfortably frequent lightning. By the time I check into my hotel I am beyond exhausted and ready to crash. My accommodations are spacious, modern, and the bed quite comfortable. I get a good night’s sleep and wake ready to tackle learning and any adventures I can squeeze in, given the opportunity.

During our morning break I research options in line with the scheme I came up with the night before, as I sat parked at one of DIA’s smallest gates in the hinterland of the A terminal. Instead of making the rounds through all the popular fried chicken and barbecue joints in Nashville, I search Yelp for “food trucks” and see what comes back. The list is extensive, and heavily weighted towards Mexican food, but there is diversity (Thai, perogies, even a Maine lobster truck). I spend several minutes reading reviews, examining truck schedules and their planned locations for the week, until I arrive at a destination for my first foray: El Nopalito. This truck is rated #1 on Yelp and is only 15 minutes from my classroom. Their menu of street tacos, burritos, burgers, and chicken wings offers tantalizing variety.

Store front and food truck tucked away in the trees.

Several hours of work later, our instructor announces we’ve arrived at lunch. I begin my hasty exit, and two of my colleagues ask where I’m going. I explain, and they decide to join me. Our drive is a quick fifteen minutes, and when we arrive at the truck, we discover a lovely outdoor setting, complete with tall, shady trees and picnic tables. The El Nopalito truck is stationed next to a house painted the same emerald green as the vehicle, and when I peer through the windows of the quaint structure, I see additional indoor seating. A gracious host greets us, hands us menus, and takes our food orders. We sit at one of the outside tables and enjoy the cool breeze as we wait for our food. The aromas and sizzling sounds coming from the truck whet our appetite; if the food is as good as it smells, we are in for a treat.

I order two street tacos: the first, Fajita Steak in a soft black bean tortilla with slaw, the second, Shrimp with Mango Salsa in a white flour tortilla. I add the Mango Habanero Chicken Wings as a starter, to accompany the entrée, and share with my friends. All of the food is delivered to our table together, after less than 10 minutes of cook time. We dig in, and I try the wings first. They aren’t hot, which surprises me; instead they are sweet, with hunks of pineapple in the coating, and a faint peppery finish. I soon begin dipping them in the green salsa that accompanies my street tacos; I find this adds a welcome (missing) heat.

Close up of the street tacos (above); the highest rated food truck in Nashville according to Yelp! (below).

I have to say the tacos are the star. They are outstanding. The black bean shell is something I’ve never seen before, and I love the flavor. The fajita meat is well seasoned and generously portioned. In the other taco, the shrimp are firm and fresh, topped with a heap of chopped cabbage and bits of mango. Service is excellent, with our attentive server eventually revealing himself to be the chef behind El Nopalito. We applaud his work and depart for our afternoon class, full and happy. One of my colleagues describes his choice – Chicken Huaraches – as a “good, low carb option” for those interested. Protein, veggies, and a small serving of rice comprised his dish. My other companion states her two fajita street tacos are the “best thing (she’d) eaten so far in Nashville.”

Plenty of seating in the shade, and yard games for the family.

Committed to my theme, on day 2 we set out again on lunch break in search of a food truck. This time we head in the opposite direction of El Nopalito, to an office park east and north. This is the current location of Laovin’ It, a Laotian food truck. Their menu features curries and noodle bowls and other delights. We arrive and order just before a crowd gathers and the line deepens. Quickly we learn the long line is not a concern – our food is ready in three minutes. I barely have time to take photos of the striking black truck and their menu sign with its colorful array of photographs before my name is called and my to go order is ready in their pickup window. I gather containers of hoisin and sriracha sauces and peer into the truck. Inside I see a young lady manning a huge wok, expertly tossing sizzling food over orange flames. Amazing aromas scent the air, and I am more than ready to taste my first bite to see if it lives up to my expectation. I stand aside as my colleagues gather their orders, and we march back to our rental car to return to the office. Seating is not available at the Laovin’ It location, but that is ok with us. Our work is close by, and our food is still hot and fresh when we tear into the takeout containers in our breakroom.

Day 2, Laovin’ It food truck, truly excellent.

My lunch is a Ramen Noodle Stir Fry with Chicken, rounded out by carrots, green onion, and white onion, all tossed with plenty of noodles. Dabs of sriracha and hoisin I add along the way bump up the flavors. Laovin’ It also provides a delicate, creamy red curry sauce, which is very mild. I sample it but prefer my sriracha/hoisin mix. For a starter I have Shrimp Spring Rolls, though in my eagerness to try the noodles, I forgot to try them first. When I finally pause and bite into one, I find fresh, crunchy veggies and plump, pink shellfish, all topped with a tasty peanut dipping sauce. Today’s lunch is as good as yesterday’s, if not a smidge better.

Wednesday we continue our international tour with Kebob Bus, a local Mediterranean food truck. This time around I feel the need for some greens, so I order the Salad with Lamb and Beef Gyro meat. Served with diced tomato, crumbly feta, cucumbers, red onion, and tossed in vinaigrette with a side of yogurt mint sauce, this is just what I need on a steamy summer day in central Tennessee. The meat is sliced thickly – probably my only slight criticism (I think a thinly sliced meat would better complement the salad).

On a whim, I add a Falafel Cake as my side item. This turns out to be the best thing on my tray for lunch. The texture is crumbly but moist, the flavor of the chickpea is prominent, and the red cabbage slaw and drizzle of spicy aioli makes each mouthful a little nibble of Greek heaven. I mop up the remnants of my cooling yogurt sauce with the slices of pita tucked alongside my salad bowl. I am full and glad to have steered us to yet another noteworthy food truck. So far, if I had to rank the three trucks in order of excellence, I say Laovin’ It takes first place, Kebob Bus second, El Nopalito third. Side note: my dining companion today ordered the Fried Mac ‘n’ Cheese and gave it rave reviews. Its cheesy crust looked amazing, and after hearing the 5-cheese description, I was a little envious. She also awarded a ranking of “highly recommend” to the Grilled Chicken with Rice Dish, her main entrée. This truck took a little longer to produce our order, around 15 minutes or so, but their staff was cheerful, friendly, and answered my many questions as we awaited our food.

Falafel Cake (top left); Fried Mac ‘n’Cheese (top right); Lamb and Beef Gyro Salad with Pita (bottom).

I find I have an opportunity to continue with my food truck theme for dinner after we end our work for the day. Two other students I meet in class advise me tonight a truck will be parked in front of their lodging, the Residence Inn Nashville Brentwood. They intend to check it out and invite me to meet them 6ish if I’m interested. When I arrive, Erica’s Touch of Taste is parked outside the lobby of the hotel, already taking orders and delivering food to the guests on property. Hungry, I order some down-home Southern Cookin’ (as advertised).

While I admit their food is well worth the wait, unfortunately this is the longest turnaround for any meal so far. A minimum of 30 minutes pass as my newfound friends and I linger outside, at first enjoying the cooling evening air, then huddling under an awning as another of Tennessee’s spectacular bone-drenchers passes overhead. Even my socks are soaked by the time I receive my dinner and take shelter inside.

One positive – as guests of the Inn, my friends are entitled to free beer on draft (Shock Top tonight) and tell me to help myself, as I am their guests. This helps considerably, as does the lightly battered shrimp and fried green tomatoes on my dinner tray. The tomatoes are vivid green inside, flecked with seasonings, and coated with a cornmeal crust that crunches with each bite. The remoulade is tart and tangy, delectable. Their hand cut fries are coated with Cajun spice and flaked salt, quite good. While all my dinner items are deep fried and a bit of a departure from my tendency to eat fresh, I enjoy every single bite. When I finish, I accept a complimentary bottle of Perrier from the gracious hostess at the bar, declining another beer in preparation for my drive back to the hotel.

Thursday’s lunch leads me to the pinnacle of my food truck quest. With no small amount of glee, I find out online that downtown Nashville hosts a gathering of such vehicles on Deaderick Street (between 4^th and 5^th) every Thursday in the summer from 11am-2pm, called Street Eats. I scan the dates and truck listings, seeing dozens of confirmed trucks for the street fair on dates between now and September. This seems like a big deal in Nashville, a hugely popular event. I mention this to my colleagues and they are game, so we sprint from the classroom as soon as the instructor announces a break. Fortunately, the morning’s rain showers have cleared; the sun is shining, and we are in high spirits. The location of the street fair is packed with people when we arrive – crowds swirl around the trucks, at least twenty of them lined up end to end on either side of Deaderick Street. Their parade spans between two city blocks and each truck has an impressive gathering of patrons, ordering or awaiting food. All around, we can see people perched on stone stairs in front of office buildings, or leaning against trees, gobbling up delicious looking sandwiches or entrees in the typical paper trays of street fairs.

Based on a recommendation from a colleague back at the Brentwood office, I walk the entire fair in search of the Grilled Cheeserie. Soon I locate the truck and scan their menu, which includes an assortment of grilled cheese sandwiches that all sound enticing. I settle on the The B&B of Tennessee, comprised of buttermilk cheddar, heritage bacon, and Georgia peach jam on toasted multigrain bread. The wait turns out to be approximately ten minutes, which is not bad. Their line triples in size as I hang out and observe the crowds. My friends scatter to the trucks they prefer – Cousin’s Maine Lobster for one (he’s on a mission) and Hoss’ Loaded Burgers for the other (she is craving burgers).

Cheddar Stuffed Burger from Hoss’s (top left); Lobster Roll from Cousin’s (top right); food truck lines on Deaderick Street (middle); Grilled Cheeserie (bottom).

Once we have our food orders in hand, we reconvene under a shady tree next to the sidewalk and perch our trays atop an electrical box behind a Thai food truck (brief moment of inner conflict as I smell their cooking and I question not ordering from them instead). My friend with his lobster roll is quite happy – he says, “This is the best meal I’ve had in Nashville!” and tells me how fresh and sweet the lobster meat is (but, he adds, skip the impulse purchase of a Moon Pie for dessert, it’s not worth it). My other friend bites into her thick, meaty patty that is stuffed with cheese and expounds on the perfect cook (medium) and flavors. We are all happy with our choices. I note that the Cousin’s Maine Lobster truck has a large notation on the side about appearing on Shark Tank, and that their menu also includes tater tots topped with lobster. this sounds amazing; I will need to make a point sampling their wares myself in the near future, I decide.

Back to my own lunch – the grilled cheese is a superbly balanced mix of sweet and savory, especially when I add the herbed mustard offered on the side. The jam bursts with the flavor of fresh picked peaches, the buttermilk cheddar is an amped up version of such a cheese, though perfectly smooth and creamy, and the bacon is a welcome salty kick. My side of crunchy tots topped with a gooey cheese blend and crumbled bacon bits rounds out what I am rapidly concluding is the best comfort food meal I’ve had in a very long time. I encourage making a point of sampling the Grilled Cheeserie the next time you are on the prowl and hungry in Nashville. Other highly recommended trucks, based on casual conversation with passers-by: Banh Mi and Roll Factory, and Deg Thai. I only have one more week in Nashville for training, and wish I could try them all. I will have to triage!

Chicago – Due

The following is part two of my Chicago series, which I’ve broken into multiple posts for readability. You might be wondering why I’ve numbered them in Italian (Uno for my very first blog post, and Due for the second installment). I’ll explain this choice in a future post.

Independence is important, I tell myself after three straight weeks of travel, away from my family and the cozy comforts of home. I’m reinforcing my ability to pursue solo adventures, to keep my curiosity alive, and my spirit young, as they say. This is an easier self-sell when I’m in a location like The Second City. Not so much when I’m in Middle-of-Nowhere, New Mexico, hundreds of miles away from Albuquerque or Amarillo, dodging tumbleweeds and bad truck stop food.

In Chicago I know I can pick a spot literally anywhere downtown, and in less than five minutes’ walk in any direction, I will encounter a) some fabulous speakeasy or pub with great ambiance, b) one of the best restaurants in the nation/world, c) a coffee shop (chain most likely), d) an alternative eatery featuring (insert some type of exotic or meatless cuisine here), and e) hotels ranging from modest boutiques to five star palaces. On my latest business trip, I decide to test this theory, despite the freezing February temperatures and intermittent cruel precipitation.

My hotel is the Fairfield Inn and Suites Chicago Downtown/Magnificent Mile; I am a loyal Marriott program points hoarder. I check in and unpack in my 13^th floor room, after a slight bemusement over the discovery that some hotels still have 13^th floors (many do not, to appease the superstitious). I almost succumb to the pillowy enticement of my king bed when I make the tactical error of lying down to test just how soft it is. But I rally and change out of my business attire and into more comfortable walking around clothes, which I top with a knitted beanie to keep my ears warm. I exit the main lobby and randomly turn right.

High end shops and twinkle lights along the Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago.

At the first cross street, I can see Magnificent Mile, aka Michigan Avenue, a mere block away, and glamorous storefronts beckoning (Coach, Rolex, Cartier, to name a few). But to my immediate right is Starbucks. Due to the deep chill setting in, despite my beanie, I head for a warming coffee to fortify myself first. At the counter I am surprised when the barista doesn’t have a clue what Bulletproof coffee is. I feel slightly awkward explaining, but he agrees to give it a go and nails it on the first try. I pay, wrap my hands around the warm brew, tighten up the fastenings on my coat, return to the outside ready for some serious window shopping.

More (window) shopping opportunities on Michigan Avenue.

Rolex is closest so I start there. Diamond encrusted ladies’ watches with their pearlescent or rose gold faces are positioned close to the glass, and are mesmerizing, with exquisite fine detail. Next, I wander over to the Coach storefront, and peruse the tastefully artistic arrangement of handbags, wallets, clutches. The smallest purse would require a disturbingly large chunk of my paycheck, if I were to give into temptation. I do not, so more walking leads me past the shops of Burberry, Salvatore Ferragamo, and Ermenegildo Zegna. All are glittery and bright, with a multitude of mannequins peering at me through wide floor to ceiling windows. Their thin forms are draped in attractive, bold colors and swirling patterns.

At this point my coffee is gone, and my fingers and toes are numb, so I decide I should find a place to thaw for a bit. Many of the fashion shops are already locked up for the evening. They aren’t really an option for me anyway, as I feel I would be as much out of place inside as a flamingo in a flock of hummingbirds. I need to find something more my speed. My wandering eye lands on a storefront that looks straight out of Willy Wonka, called Dylan’s Candy Bar; I head straight for it.

Entering the vividly colored emporium is like falling into a cross between a real-life Candyland game and a child’s version of chocolate heaven. Every inch of the shop is painted in technicolor blues, greens, pinks, and rainbows, with sculptures of oversized suckers and candy canes, and realistic dripping dark chocolate paint covering the walls. Tasteful wall displays of decorative candy boxes flank enormous bins with every color and flavor of gummy candy, jellybean, chocolate bar, lollipop, and a myriad assortment of other sweet treats. A psychedelic blend of sugar pop songs blares over the audio system, from Candy by Mandy Moore to Lollipop and I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch). I am overwhelmed with choices, and ten minutes elapse before I can settle on a handful of different chocolate bar flavors to bring home to my family. I also select a garnish of oversized rainbow suckers and a package of retro Pop Rocks bubble gum. The kids will love this stuff! As I pass a wall of llama accoutrement and a pile of unicorn themed stuffies, clothing, and poo-producing toys, I have to laugh. I also see a cotton candy spinner station, which is sadly shut down for the night. This place is overwhelming, in a good way. I will have to return someday in future, with my family in tow. I pay for their gifts and depart, ready for dinner.

The rest of my evening adventures are documented in Chicago: Uno. A good friend and I met for dinner and drinks and thoroughly enjoyed our visit to the Windy City. To continue where I left off at the end of that post, I will skip ahead to the next morning of my trip.

After a delightful rest and a rare bit of sleeping in, I depart my hotel and walk the Museum Campus, adjacent to the monolithic Soldier Field on one side, with a sweeping vista of Lake Michigan on the other. My goal: The Field Museum. For my first visit ever to this renowned museum. I’d been in Chicago before, and enjoyed the Shedd Aquarium, Art Institute, and other noteworthy destinations, but never the Field Museum. My colleagues earlier in the week had encouraged me to go, a “do not miss” they said. Finally, this is my chance. I have a few short hours before my flight home, and I plan to take full advantage.

The entrance to Chicago’s Field Museum from a distance; close up the structure is colossal.

Upon arrival I climb the stone stairs (dozens of them) and check in with a helpful docent and I learn that all of February allows locals free admission. Out of towners like myself can benefit from a substantial admission discount. I happily pay, accept brochures and a map, and plot my power walk of the museum. This place is enormous, with so many diverse options, I know there’s no way to see it all. I have only three hours before I need to depart for O’Hare so I have to triage. I will need time in the dinosaur halls (Sue!), the gem displays, cultures of the South Pacific, journey through earth’s geological history…and that’s just a start. Glad I wore my workout sneakers, I hustle to the nearest stairway. I pass Maximo the titanosaur, who dominates the entry hall of the museum. Pterosaurs perch overhead. I find the ancient history part of the museum, and traverse epochs while studying the various fossils and recreations of dinosaur skeletons, more recent ice age and post ice age mammals (I’ve adored mammoths since visiting the Smithsonian in DC at age five) and humanoid ancestors. I marvel at the knowledge that earth has endured FIVE extinction level events (I was only aware of two before) and we are currently living through (and sadly, as humans, exacerbating) the fifth. Next, I enter the geology hall and examine various meteorite samples, more earthly rock types, and a refresher on volcanology and plate tectonics. Priceless gems are displayed nearby, so I pore over each case, learning about the many colors of jade. I find a large, flawless example of my birthstone (emerald) set in a delicate broach, then learn my other favorite precious stones are all corundum (sapphire, ruby, star). The multitude and brightness of the stones are dazzling.

Humor in the paleontology section of the Field Museum.

A time check spurs me on faster. Sue is somewhere upstairs, and to find her I wend my way back through the dinosaur exhibit, until I find the section devoted entirely to her. The multimedia display is impressive – Sue herself is in the back, but her skull is near the front in a separate case (the larger, entire assembly of the t-rex has a substitute, as the original was damaged over millennia in the ground). The sheer size of her cranium and imposing teeth are jaw-dropping. Movies and sound play around me, immersing me in a replica of prehistoric jungle, and approximation of t-rex sounds are piped through speakers. I learn about Sue’s history, how she was discovered, and all sorts of trivia about her species. One startling new fact: tyrannosaurus rex may have had feathers! I linger here for quite some time, reading every informative poster and kiosk in the display. I watch as Sue stalks through the trees in search of prey, on an impressive multi-panel digital display that takes up most of a very long room, next to her towering skeleton. This part of the museum alone is more than worth the price of admission.

Sue, the world’s most famous tyrannosaurus rex!

After my Sue experience I ascend and descend a few sets of marble stairs, turned all around and map-challenged in this huge multi-floor building. Somehow, I find myself in the South Pacific, which is a pleasant surprise. Brightly painted sculptures and implements of war from different island peoples flank the walkways, alongside woven baskets and boats, carved canoes, a glowing, ultra-realistic lava flow exhibit, and even living structures. The centerpiece of this part of the museum is a Maori council house, or wharenui, with a posted sign of equal parts greeting and admonishment to remove your shoes/food/drink before entering. Inside, I understand the strict rules. This is a sacred space, used and revered by indigenous peoples before being disassembled and relocated to the Field Museum. I can feel the reverence and stillness inside before reading any of the discreet educational placards mounted on the walls.

I am alone for the first time in my entire journey through the museum. The interior of the wooden building inspires a solemn hush and contemplation. I study the elaborate carvings along the walls, which, unlike much in the museum, one is invited to touch. I read about how spaces such as this were used by the Maori people for gatherings, celebrations, funerals, and the structure of the house itself forms the body of a venerated ancestor who introduced woodcarving to the world. Many of the carvings I see around me are faces, with mother of pearl inlay for the eyes, which gives a haunting effect. This is one of only three buildings like it outside of New Zealand, I read. A truly moving experience, I appreciate that I am alone, in the quiet. This Maori wharenui structure is my end note, and it resonates. Peaceful, thought-provoking, and aesthetically unforgettable.

I depart the museum deep in thought, remembering all I just experienced. I stroll back to my rental car, through parking lots, sidewalks, past Soldier Field, and Shedd Aquarium, and the empty, iced over marina. A good 15 minutes later I’m driving to O’Hare, still lost in my reverie. Entering the airport jolts me back to a grittier reality, one filled with loud cell phone talkers, jostling elbows of oblivious travelers racing for a tight connection, food court smells, and the very real peril of toes stubbed or steamrollered by overweight wheelie-bags. Once tucked into my seat on the plane home, however, I close my eyes and see it all again. Noise-cancelling headphones on, I drift off to sleep with the indelible images of the day floating through my consciousness.

Denver Date

My lovely wife and I celebrated our 3-year anniversary on May 25^th with a Sunday afternoon jaunt in Denver. I usually prefer to write about locales I visit when working farther from home, but we had such a fun time exploring a vibrant section of the Mile-High City, I thought I’d write up the details to share.

To start off our kid-free date event, we visit a friend celebrating her birthday and recent move-in with her significant other. They welcome us to his (now their) chateau off East Alameda, a Washington Park Victorian adjacent to the Cherry Creek area. Built in 1895, the house is a two-story gem with beautiful, burnished wood and arch moldings, original fireplace with stone and glass tile inlays, and remodeled bathrooms with handsome granite countertops. We sample the hostess’ signature cocktail, a “Paris 76”. This riff off the more well-known Paris 75 includes vodka, St. Germain, Vodka, lemon juice, simple syrup, topped with a vibrant Prosecco. I limit myself to one and a half pours of the bubbly beverage, as it is summery, light, addictive, and goes straight to my head. Our friends give us a tour of the house, and we admire the many black and white portraits and landscapes our friend had taken herself, including a beautiful shot out the window of a moving train traversing the “roadless canyon” along the Platte Canyon route.

When our delightful visit to their party ends, we take our leave and set off for part two of our date. We have no destination in mind; this is an open-ended expedition to Larimer Square. We check Yelp to find restaurant recommendations, and the app indicates several hotspots are in the vicinity. So, we park on the street and decide to wander until we find one of them, or, as is my habit when I travel out of town, until our noses lead us to a venue with aromas too tantalizing to pass by.

The entrance to Russell’s Smokehouse; Wednesday’s Pie Counter is just outside.

We don’t roam for long. One of our first Yelp recommendations is adjacent to the courtyard that houses Bistro Vendome, where we recently brunched for the first time with friends (a good idea to add to your Denver “must” list). Russell’s Smoke House is down a narrow set of stairs and neighbor to a speakeasy that tempts us, but we decide food is the first order of business. Russell’s staff greets us the moment we enter the small waiting area outside of the Speakeasy and the adjacent restaurant. This space is also known as the pie counter of Wednesday’s Pie. The floors are black and white checker squares, the hammered tin ceiling boasts intricate patterns, and several stools stand at the ready for those interested in pie only. As we are ushered into Russell’s and I notice the burnished wood bar is sleek, with wide mirrors enhancing the view of a wide assortment of bottles. Behind which stands a friendly bartender who efficiently sets out two places.

We are informed bar seating is the only option for walk-ins like us during this busy dinner hour, and we do not mind. The smell of smoked meats is just strong enough to entice, and we have no interest in going elsewhere now. Patrons around us dine on ribs, pulled pork, brisket, and heaping side dishes I am eager to identify. The bartender slides the one-page menu our way while “Boys of Summer” by Don Henley plays in the background, buoying our carefree mood. The tall bar stools are comfortable, and tall-backed booths along the wall behind us or table seating in a larger dining area are the alternative options for those with reservations. Women’s softball plays on several wall mounted flat screens, but we soon turn our attention to the specialty cocktail menu. Some discussion ensues, as we debate draft beers versus gin based or other cocktails with our helpful and talkative bartender. We settle on “Watch Your Step*,” a bold concoction of mezcal, lime, and salt. Crowned with a wheel of lime, and pale peachy-blush in color, the cocktail is sippable summer. We share one in a frosty pillar highball tumbler and discuss the appetizer selection. The Crispy Shrimp Tacos and Brisket Sliders sound delicious, but we instead opt for the Pork Belly, and the brilliantly named Cheesy Bacon Bombs, which set our mouths to watering in anticipation. We consult with our bartender about the option of adding a side of macaroni and cheese. He encourages us to do so at any time. Our thought is to see how filling the apps turn out to be, then order more food if needed. (Note to self, as my wife blithely informs me: “Mac ‘n’ cheese is always needed.”)

Sipping our cocktail happily, we wait for our food and check the softball game in progress. Our bartender deftly flips shakers and spins bottles nearby. In no time at all, the Pork Belly and Cheesy Bacon Bombs arrive. The glistening meat is served with crispy onions and expertly charred brussels sprouts, as well as a crisp apple pomegranate marmalade that lends a welcome acidity to cut the richness of the pork. Every bite I take, which I carefully assemble with a morsel of each ingredient of the dish, is fruity, sweet, savory, smoky, and just enough hints of salt and vinegar to balance all the flavors. My better half agrees with me – of the two appetizers, this one is far superior.

Clockwise from upper left: Interior of Russell’s Smokehouse; the Watch Your Step; Cheesy Bacon Bombs and Pork Belly appetizers; Food menu with plenty of delicious options.

The Cheesy Bacon Bombs are worth sampling, and enjoyable, though they cannot compete with the Pork Belly. They are wrapped with a crisp slice of bacon around a puff pastry with bit of mozzarella inside. Bite-sized, lightly crunchy on the outside, and a soft and chewy in the center. I find I prefer the chipotle aioli dipping sauce, and my wife favors the marinara. We order the macaroni and cheese shortly after tasting both (egged on by the bartender, who says: we can’t go wrong, this pasta dish is not to be missed). Minutes later our steaming bowl of cheesy noodles arrives. We dive in and immediately fall into bliss. Decadent, creamy, gooey, this is everything macaroni and cheese should be. Seashell shaped conchiglie cradle a thick bechamel sauce that warms from the belly up, a nice counterpart to our already warming cocktail. The best bite combination of the night is crafted by my wife, who adds the pork belly appetizer components with a generous portion of the macaroni, before sharing a taste with me. Heaven. We then discover one can order a bowl of the macaroni with additions on top, such as the pork belly, and vow to do so upon our certain return someday.

While we are in our food reverie, two burly young men enter the bar and sit directly next to us. They start speaking, and we notice their thick brogues. Soon they order beers, and then give us a pleasant hello. After some conversation they confirm their country of origin is Scotland. Visiting for a week, they will explore Denver first, then move on to Boulder.

“Do you live here? Any recommendations for us in Boulder?” the young man closest to my wife asks, his accented vowels rolling delightfully.

“We live in Loveland,” I tell him, “but I lived in Boulder for years.” We chat about points of interest and restaurants. I suggest Pearl Street and Chautauqua Park as starting points. “You can’t go wrong on Pearl, there are plenty of pubs, bistros, shops, you name it. And at Chautauqua you can do easy hikes and enjoy the scenery or go straight up the mountain if you want something more strenuous.” They nod at us as they sip their beers.

I am not sure if our young friends are interested in any fine dining recommendations, so I refrain from suggesting my favorite high-end dinner spots: The Black Cat, Frasca (two experiences in Boulder that should not be missed, for any true gourmands). More moderately priced Pasta Jay’s, The Med, Sushi Zanmai, and Salt are all excellent, so I share those ideas. We chat for a while longer, enjoying the boys’ laughter, and they seem to welcome our input for their tour of Colorado. Our appetizer sampler and cocktail finally polished off, we bid the lovely Scottish visitors farewell and depart up the steep stairway to ground level. A sign on the door on the way out again touts “Wednesday’s Pie”; we add this to our list of places to sample when we return.

Our walk in the pleasant early evening air takes us around Larimer Square, decorated with white twinkle lights strung overhead, and plenty of outdoor seating for the restaurants lining the busy street. Amazing smells waft out of nearly every door we pass. We review menus and study the dining options nestled side by side along the block. Overwhelmed with choices, we keep walking, and stroll a few blocks north and east to Blake Street, where we stumble across a string of unique eateries and bars neither of us had seen before. I jot a few names down for our ever-lengthening Denver return visit to do list: Jovanina’s Broken Italian, Freshcraft, 1515 Restaurant, Pourhouse Pub. All have interesting menus and buzz with patrons. We decide we do not have time for these options at the moment, and keep walking.

Skeletal guardian on the wall at Brass Tacks Bar.

Still ambivalent, kind of almost full but not quite sure, we enter Brass Tacks Bar for a quick refreshment. The space inside is enormous, with ceilings over 20 feet high, and ample space for seating on the long walk to the back. The décor is Western/Rockies kitsch – a huge steer skull and horns stands watch by the food counter in the back, and an antelope head greets those who enter at the front. The walls are exposed brick, the ceiling decorated in familiar hammered tin squares (apparently a popular design choice in vintage Denver structures). Brass Tacks’ well stocked bar offers libations of every sort, so I order an Outer Range Final Summit Saison (on draft) from the mustachioed bartender while my smart wife chooses water in anticipation of our impending drive home to the children. We settle into a booth across from the bar, in view of the movie “Gone in 60 Seconds” on the large flat screen. My beer is cold and smooth, with a floral nose, and delicate notes of coriander and banana.

Draft beer selection with an impressive variety of options.

The food counter is doing brisk business, with salads, burgers, and sandwiches coming out at a fast clip. Above it is a large, bright array of blinking numbers, making me think of an old-fashioned bingo hall, though there is a backlit “Now Serving” sign at the top. I can’t tell if they are truly using the display to notify customers their order is ready, or if it is just for show; either way, it looks pretty cool.

Bustling food counter in the back of Brass Tacks.

The aroma of grilling meats is alluring, and we discuss potential ordering options for several minutes, but we realize we are satisfied after Russell’s, and ordering more food might push us into “the bad place.” I study the menu, zeroing in on the Chimichurri Steak, with a mouthwatering description: “marinated grilled flank steak, chimichurri, roasted piquillo peppers, arugula, jalapeno on fresh baguette.” A bearded young man retrieves one from the window and I stare overlong as he passes our table: the crisp baguette is piled with thick slices of meat, and I can see the glistening chimichurri sauce crowning the beef and fresh arugula. I realize I need to sample this sandwich, or perhaps the Blackened Shrimp BLT (“blackened shrimp, bacon, lettuce, tomato, aji amarillo on toasted sourdough”). The Brick Chicken listed under “Family Meal” also sounds amazing: “half or whole roasted/grilled, served with tortillas, chicken jus, sour cream dip, hot sauce and fixings”. So much tasting to do, so little time, I lament to my longsuffering wife. When can we return? She gives me a patient look during my ramble, then gently suggests we head for home. Duty calls, and we can’t expect Grandma to watch the children forever. We will be back here soon enough. Reluctantly we wrap up our date night and retrace our steps to the car. On our drive back north, we observe the vivid sunset, full of warm pinks and molten gold clouds over the snowy Rockies, a fitting ending to our anniversary night on the town.

*Not to be confused with Mind Your Step, which came up when I googled cocktails of a similar name, in hopes of reproducing the Watch Your Step at home in future. London’s Artesian Hotel is the proud home of the Mind Your Step, a drink that looked so creative and potentially mind-blowing, I wanted to hop the pond to sample it immediately. Fodder for future international questing and blogging, noted.

Post Blog Entry Update: We returned to Russell’s last weekend, and finally sampled Wednesday’s Pie. I ordered the Apple Pie with Caramel Sauce, a la Mode. The crust was buttery, flakey, just the right thickness. The ice cream (Vanilla Bean) was luscious, and melted delightfully into the pie. Normally I’m not a caramel fan, but they drizzled the perfect amount over the warm slice, and each bite of firm apple, homemade crust, sauce, and ice cream melded harmoniously on the tongue. I highly recommend this spot for dessert anytime one gets the opportunity.

Spring in the Far North

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This post was updated with photos from my return trip late summer of 2019.

Coming off a run of long, technically complex projects, I practically beg my team’s Director for an opportunity to manage a deployment that is smaller and easier.

“It’ll be like a paid vacation,” I say, as persuasively I can. “I’ll still do the best job possible, but it would be nice to work on something that doesn’t make my head hurt daily.”

He chuckles, then relents. “You can have Superior, Wisconsin.”

One of the many beautiful bridges in the Duluth MN and Superior WI area.

I am ecstatic. You see, I lived in Minnesota from the ages of 12 to 21, and in summer my family would day trip (and occasionally overnight) up in Duluth, on the shores of Lake Superior. The small hamlet of the same name is mere minutes from Duluth, directly across an impressive steel bridge arching over a small inlet along the great lake’s shoreline. If we start now, timing to return for our usual two weeks onsite to complete the project would fall in August, a fantastic time to be up there. Sunny days, peaceful breezes off the lake, thick green foliage and shady trees – I could picture them all and can anticipate experiences that would be a first for me as an adult visiting the area. Namely the ability to sample local craft beers and hunt down small, hole-in-the-wall restaurants with tasty menus. The last time I was in Duluth I was a teenager, so while I am looking forward to revisiting some of the beautiful points of interest (Split Rock Lighthouse, hikes along the lake, the cabins and cafes with their berry pies, in Tofte), I am also excited to round out my experience with a few celebratory adult beverages after such sightseeing.

Happily, I run through the typical preliminary steps for my project and find during my introductory call with the customer that they are pleasant, down-to-earth, and ready to “get things going as soon as possible,” according to the cheerful 9-1-1 agency director. We schedule my onsite kickoff with her team for May 9^th, and I book my travel, planning to arrive the day prior, and depart the day after. I figure this will allow me a little time in Superior/Duluth, to explore the towns’ offerings and give me enough information to plan my return in August. The evening of May 9^th, post customer meeting, I will make the 2 ½ hour drive back to Minneapolis and stay downtown. This will put me closer to the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport (I am skeptical of the reliability of scheduled flights in and out of Duluth Regional) and allow a little jaunt around the big city that night.

I must admit now that I was a bit naïve in my assumptions about northern Minnesota/Wisconsin weather in early May. I thought the trees would be budding, the birds would be singing, the sun would be shining. Heck, I used to live there! How easily one forgets the extreme weather conditions in one of our northernmost states. Fortunately, I remember to check the forecast while packing. I learn temperatures are expected to be in the 40’s during the day, chillier overnight, and precipitation likely. I load my suitcase with sweaters and warm pants and socks and pull my winter coat out of the basement closet. Colorado has already experienced multiple 70- and 80-degree days this spring, and while organizing my travel bags I am wearing shorts and flip flops.

My preparations turn out to be not only worthwhile, but necessary. We land in rainy, bone-chilling conditions, and the drive north turns into an all-afternoon affair through progressively colder precipitation. At first, we slog through heavy rain. About halfway to Duluth the rain turns to sleet, then flurries, then a full-blown snowstorm I classify as just shy of a blizzard. My two coworkers and I are fortunate enough to have been upgraded by our car rental company to a gigantic Suburban that is only slightly smaller than the R.M.S. St. Mary. The vehicle responds to my attempts to steer it about as quickly as that oversized barge. My colleagues marvel at the weather and both say they are glad a “native” is driving instead of them. One of them is from Maine, the other from Chicago, and not exactly strangers to winter weather. But they say they are just glad to not to be responsible for our welfare in the deteriorating road conditions.

GPS intermittently fails us on our expedition to the Far North, and the thick gray skies overhead block the signal a disconcerting number of times. We finally arrive in Superior and I am battling no small headache from the tension of driving through the heavy, wet snow, which continues to fall relentlessly. A brief conference with my co-workers has us all in agreement that once we check into our hotel for the evening, no one will want to venture back out in this mess. So, we pull over and Google dining options. OMC Smokehouse on Superior Street is voted the best of all the choices nearby, so I point the car in that direction. En route one of my colleagues opts out of dinner, so we drop him off at his hotel and continue, hungry and ready to eat. We can see the lake to our left as we drive: angry, slate colored waters churning, huge whitecaps rocking the buoys and boats anchored out. Our drive to the restaurant takes us through town, and I note the tall, narrow houses with steeply pitched roofs, typical of northern climes known for deep, accumulating snowfall.

I park the U.S.S. Enterprise street-side, and we endure a painful walk into the wind. Needle-like sleet pricks our frozen cheeks for the several long minutes it takes to get to the restaurant. Inside OMC Smokehouse the weather is warm and cozy, the smells amazing. Smoked meats and hints of barbecue sauces waft through the air. Bar seating is full; the restaurant at capacity. We put our names on the waitlist and linger by a big picture window that faces a yard with a glowing fire pit. If conditions had been slightly better, we would’ve waited by the flickering flames, but the driving snow-sleet keeps us inside. Our pager lights up around 15 minutes later, indicating our table is ready. By then we are truly starving.

The outdoor seating at OMC Smokehouse would’ve enticed, if not for the snow-sleet.

Castle Danger Cream Ale, smooth and delectable. Perfect with barbecued meats. (Which I tried on my return trip late summer ’19)

Our server, a tall, no-nonsense, bearded young man, takes our drink orders (iced tea with lemon for me, the driver; a draft IPA for my companion) and brings us chicharrones for an appetizer. The crispy, puffed pork skins are on the house, and come with a caddy containing the restaurant’s four signature house made sauces. The first I try is a chipotle barbecue, thick and rich, with the right hint of heat. Next, their regular sweet barbecue, I find unremarkable. After that, the Carolina mustard, which I soon announce is my new my favorite barbecue sauce ever. I scoop up more than one generous dollop with the chicharrones. I think I am all set for the night, my favorite condiment selected for my pending dinner order. Until I try the “white barbecue”, as the waiter describes it. The horseradish barbecue sauce is creamy, speckled with seasonings, and appears innocuous enough. But when I dribble a bit on a crunchy chicharron and take a bite, I have to exclaim, “Holy cow, that’s good!” to the amusement of my table mate. She follows suit and agrees this is indeed one of the best of all the sauces she’s ever had. We discuss how the gratis appetizer is the perfect vehicle for sampling all the sauces, and to whet a diner’s appetite prior to ordering the meal. After the appetizer experience, I am so keen to try all the sauces with all the meats on the menu, I wind up forgoing my original plan of ordering a brisket sandwich. Instead I order the OMC Platter, which includes a quarter chicken, two ribs, and brisket. My friend stays the course with the brisket sandwich, her plan all along. She later tells me she is not disappointed, and the white barbecue “makes the whole thing work.”

Chicharrones on the patio (photo added end of summer ’19).

My OMC platter is generous, too much for me to finish in one sitting, but I am so happy to dive in and try. I dip all the meats, one at a time, in all the sauces, rotating through them gleefully. The savory, juicy brisket is crisp on the fat cap, a smoked masterpiece. The ribs are fall-apart tender, the chicken seasoned and moist. While chewing through brisket with the spicy white sauce I notice a poster commemorating OMC Smokehouse’s feature on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives. This gives me a chuckle, as I often watch that show while relaxing in a hotel room after a long day of work on the road, or with the family at home. I’d gotten many a tip from Guy Fieri and am surprised I missed the episode featuring this Duluth gem.

Generous portions and memorable flavors: Brisket, Smoked Chicken, and Ribs, alongside delectable sides.

Diners at the Smokehouse, which was quite busy.

I should mention my side dishes, which are as noteworthy as the meaty main stars of the meal: The Bleu Cheese and Bacon Potato Salad give me no regrets in breaking from my recent no/low carb trend. The potatoes are perfectly cooked, the blue cheese pungent, the bacon crumbles a nice counterpoint. Our server also brings me a bowl of the best coleslaw I’ve ever had – shreds of crunchy cabbage dressed with bright vinegar and luscious mayo, sprinkled with crisp slivers of carrot. I eat bites in between the meats, as the fresh veggies nicely balance out the richness of the beef.

We are so stuffed after all our delectable meats and sides, we decline dessert, and I still have leftover brisket to take to my hotel. Our server brings me tiny containers for the sauces, as I am not about to leave those behind. We pay our check and thank him sincerely as we depart.

Snow, slush, and a barely visible Lake Superior, from my hotel room.

Our drive to the Fairfield Inn and Suites – Duluth Waterfront, is mercifully short. The snow continues to fall throughout. When we arrive, we unpack the car at lightning speed and trek across the lot to the hotel lobby. At least four inches of slush blankets the asphalt, soaking my shoes and socks. We are adjacent to a marina and pass ghostly silhouettes of boats dry docked for winter as we struggle, dragging our bags across the bumpy terrain. Once inside, check-in fast, so I am soon warm and cozy in my hotel room. I change into comfy pants and a sweatshirt as soon as the door swings shut behind me. I look out the window as I wait for my hot cup of Bigelow Sweet Dreams tea to brew and watch the snow driving in sideways now, because of the ever-increasing wind. I can see the restless gray lake roiling in the distance as the light fades.

The next morning the dark clouds part to reveal a blue sky. My team and I meet again in the town of Superior, at the large building that houses the Sheriff’s Department. Our subsequent discussions are a success, so we wrap up and drive to lunch at the Anchor Bar and Grill, per the customer’s specific request. Known for their tasty burgers, the small divey joint has a kitschy nautical and pirate ship theme to their interior décor, which is sprinkled with random items like a gleaming brass trumpet alongside outdoorsy posters and a mannequin leg hanging from ceiling. Other seafaring paraphernalia is scattered about, buoys and fishing nets, interspersed with signs hawking Wisconsin beers. One such wall hanging includes an illustration of the Cashmere Hammer Nitro Stout, from 3 Sheeps Brewing. Their advertisement boasts: “Drinks like the best darn milkshake you’ve ever had…. rich creamy packed with chocolaty goodness and an earthy spice that can only come from rye malt.” This catches my eye and I regret being on the clock and out with the customer. If I could, I would do some tasting right then and there. I jot down notes for my return late summer; sampling any 3 Sheeps beer I could find is now on my after-hours agenda.

Burgers worth writing home about, no lie.

Fun and games while waiting for our order, which came out within 5 minutes.

Lunch for me is a mushroom bacon swiss burger with excellent hand cut fries. Others at the table order a variety of hamburgers, some with avocado, others with caramelized onion and cheddar; all are piled high with toppings and look amazing. We dine and chat, with lots of laugher sprinkled in. Eventually we wind down and pay, as it’s time to head out and find the airport for one of my colleagues. We depart the restaurant, and shortly thereafter I drop him off at Duluth-Superior Regional Airport (I wish him the best of luck). I then make the three-hour drive south with my remaining passenger. Our good fortune with the weather continues to hold – the snow is gone, light clouds drift away and reveal a welcome sun. I deliver my friend to the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport just after 4pm as planned, and finish the remainder of my drive, finally arriving at the W hotel at the Foshay Tower in Minneapolis.

Having lived in Minnesota previously, I’d of course visited both of the Twin Cities before. I’d spent time there as a kid, with my family, exploring the museums, shops, skyways, and later, I attended school and graduated with my B.A. from the University of Minnesota – Twin Cities Campus (Go Gophers!). But this is the first time I have a reason to stay in a hotel downtown, and I have no idea what to expect from the Foshay Tower. I pull up to the curb and a valet takes the Suburban off my hands. A friendly bellman escorts me in, carrying my bags. The lobby is incredible, with a glowing pink ceiling and flattering dim lighting, an attractive (but even darker) bar with a striking aqua blue light pillar and DJ booth, flanked by leather oversized loveseats and loungers that are surrounded by plush pillows and velvet ottomans. The towering bar shelving is backlit and sleek, stacked with top shelf bottles, and leads to private lounging areas and reserved, exclusive dining rooms for Manny’s Steakhouse next door. The entry is jaw-dropping, on par with a recent experience I’d had at the Blackstone Hotel in Chicago, a top-of-the-line luxury destination on the North Shore*.

The hostess welcomes me, checks me in, and offers me a complimentary Orange Creamsicle drink. I giggle and say, “Yes, of course.” The taste is heavenly. I must ask about the ingredients. She smiles and tells me: Vanilla vodka, orange juice, heavy cream, give it a little shake, and voilà – frothy goodness.

At this point I probably should share that during the check-in process I hesitantly asked if any corner rooms were available on a higher floor. Usually I ask for a high floor, away from elevators, so she saw that information in my profile. She whispered to me that I was in luck and slipped me my key card without any fanfare.

I curiously travel up to the 20^th floor and what I find far exceeds any expectations I might’ve had…the king suite is enormous, with views of the city, a sitting area, and large flat screen, along with a fluffy, inviting bed with piles of pillows. The oversized bath is almost bigger than the bedroom, and decked out in black and white marble, accented with windows on all sides overlooking the glowing towers nearby. I could shower and gaze out at Minneapolis if I wished. The hotel toiletries are Bliss brand, and the lemon and sage body butter lotion leave me inclined to pilfer a handful from a housekeeping cart. I sniff the tangy scent of the soaps and shampoos and decide all remaining products would be coming home with me after my overnight stay.

Back in the main part of the suite I review the contents of my generously stocked minibar. I have an assortment of sodas, juices, spirits, wines, beers, and snack foods such as candy (M&Ms, Skittles, Twizzlers, dark chocolate and more), cookies, beef jerky, sweet potato chips, and mixed nuts. I open a drawer and find an intimacy kit, umbrella, and corkscrew – all for sale at 200% markup prices. Near the minibar I find a Nespresso machine with delightfully named coffees: Ristretto, the regular espresso option, Vivalto Lungo a milder café (according to the label), and Voluto Decaffenato, for those who don’t require a stiff caffeine boost. I’m not a regular coffee drinker but I plan to try at least some of them before my departure. How could I not? I’ve seen those George Clooney commercials…I simply must know how this stuff tastes!

I settle into my room and freshen up, as my next step for the night is to meet my best friend from high school for dinner in the city. She’s headed my way after wrapping up her workday at a medical supply company west of Minneapolis. As I haven’t heard from her yet, I figure I have a little time to kill, so I browse the hotel information binder to get a feel for the amenities. The observation tower on the 30^th floor sounds interesting, and I learn it is only open until 5pm. If I hurry, I might just make it up there in time for a brief look. I take a vintage lift, original to building (according to a helpful bellman), up to the very top of the Foshay Tower. Signs warn me before I step out onto the deck that the door is heavy, and I find this to be highly accurate. I manage to force the door open on my own and am startled by the ferocity of the wind howling around the building. The deck wraps around the entire building, giving fantastic views of the city at sunset. I live-stream my walk and the 360 degree view on Facebook. Once I finish, I return to the quieter interior of the tower and walk through the Hall of History. The space is decorated with photos and plaques about the building, its architects and former inhabitants, and other interesting details. At this point my friend texts me she’s at the restaurant, waiting, so I set out to meet her for dinner.

Clockwise from upper left: Atop the Foshay Tower; a poster in the Hall of History; display cases with memorabilia; more of the Minneapolis skyline.

On a whim, I’d picked our destination from a list of Yelp recommended restaurants in the vicinity of the Foshay Tower. Just around the corner from the W is Hell’s Kitchen, which turns out to be underground (appropriately) and a delightful surprise. My friend awaits me inside, so I quickly descend the wrought-iron stairway and pass “Welcome To Hell” signs and leering gargoyles. We sit at a tall table near the bar, in view of an enormous projection screen showing Tom and Jerry cartoons. Sinister paintings line the walls, as well as elaborate, curling ironwork, thick, dripping candles, and other devil and hell themed items. All add to the hilarious, evil, hipster feel of the place.

Our waiter advises us Hell’s Kitchen is famous for their Lemon Ricotta Pancakes, served with fresh fruit, creamery butter, and maple syrup. My friend and I have our eye on dinner entrees but decide, what the heck? We’ll try the pancakes as an appetizer. We also learn from the back of the menu that the restaurant makes a notoriously delicious from-scratch peanut butter. Unable to resist, we order some of that too, for the pancakes, of course. I can report that everything lives up to the hype and then some. The pancakes are huge, hanging over the edge of our large serving plate, and inches thick (stacked three high). They are fluffy and decadent even without butter or any toppings, but we pile them on anyway (maple syrup, raspberries, strawberries) as they only enhance the flavor of the cakes. The tang of the lemon balances the decadence the ricotta lends to the batter. The peanut butter is very sweet and thick, all natural, and quite tasty on the cakes. My friend and I discuss how it would be great on a toasted bagel or crusty bread.

Though it was hard to think of eating anything after those remarkable pancakes, we both order Fish ‘n’ Chips for our entrees. For me, my side was Hand Cut Sweet Potato Fries. For my friend, regular spuds. The fish batter is light, slightly sweet, with an airy crunch and perfect with a squeeze of lemon and malt vinegar. Over the course of our meal the restaurant grows busier, the Thursday night dinner crowd turning out in spades. My friend and I reminisce about old times and stay as long as we can before finally winding down so she could make her long drive home. On the way out, I stop in the ladies’ room and am surprised and delighted at the decorator’s sense of humor. Portraits on the walls, framed against an antique, deep maroon patterned wallpaper, feature benign, smiling, normal people. But when you walk past them, they morph into murderous, decaying zombies, one with an axe in his head, another a twin to the girl from The Exorcist, the final a portrait of a leering witch. While facing the mirror to wash your hands, you are crowned with a halo etched into the glass, at just the right height to compliment your reflection. The entire experience is so memorable and unique, I can’t wait to share the details with my family at home.

The bar at Hell’s Kitchen, with vintage cartoons on the flat screens.

After saying goodbye to my dear friend, I feel like walking around a bit before the light fades. My stroll takes me past the Orpheum Theatre, where I first saw Phantom of the Opera, many years ago. I walk past the colossal, sparkling IDS building, and down Nicollet Mall, which has oldies classics blaring on speakers mounted on light posts lining the street. The bus stops are lit up in changing rainbow LED lights, which are beautiful to look at, all in a row down the Mall. I gape at the glittering skyscrapers towering around me and am reminded that I’ve long thought Minneapolis to be one of the prettiest cities in the United States.

My ramble back to the hotel takes me past the St Thomas University campus, complete with sandstone cathedral and classic brick dorm buildings. Along the way I find a multitude of diverse eateries: fragrant Thai restaurants, casual sandwich shops, bustling pizza places, and elegant steakhouses. One building has its entire top level lit with a digital moving mural of bees and flowers and a grassy field, far above the city. I stop and stare at it as the sun finally sets. Pink and soft orange color the glass of the tall buildings all around me. The night is cool and quiet, unique for a city as large as this. No sirens disturb the air, and few people are walking about.

One of many striking murals I found walking around the city.

Cozy place for a cocktail and clandestine romance.

I linger until I notice how tired I really am and can no longer ignore my aching feet. I make my way back to the W, with a brief stop at a charming little wine shop called Haskell’s, where I pick up a split of Sauvignon Blanc. Back at my hotel, on a whim I ride the lift to the Prohibition Bar on 27^th floor. I soon find out stopping at Haskell’s was a good idea, as starting prices for cocktails at this classy bar are in the high teens. But, from here, the views of the city at night are remarkable, and the special for the evening is champagne. I explore the bar’s labyrinth of turns and cozy nooks, its library corner, and spiral staircases (blocked by velvet ropes), and a private, somewhat scandalous window seat that is an oversized bed-shaped chaise. It is unoccupied now, but I can imagine it would make an ideal secluded nook for any couple wanting to get away from the rowdy crowd at the bar. The menu of specialty cocktails is tempting but expensive, so I return to my room with my little bottle of vino and tuck myself in for the night.

Before nodding off, I give into temptation and hang my breakfast order placard outside my door. I had penciled in a request for a salmon bagel at 7:15am, planning to use the delivery as my culinary wake-up call before I head to the airport, and back home.

The knock on my door the next morning is an abrupt end to my slumber, but the platter I receive is worth it: a lightly toasted bagel, alongside a generous portion of fresh, pink salmon, with thick cream cheese, fragrant tomatoes, salty capers, and tangy red onion. I have breakfast in bed for the first time in ages, and watch the sun come up over the city through the parted curtains of my enormous picture windows. I am relaxed and feeling spoiled, so motivating myself for departure is a challenge, but I don’t want to be late for my flight. While leaving Minneapolis, I pass the 1stBank Center stadium and take a good look at the home of the Vikings, my favorite team. The structure is so massive, I strain to see the top as I drive by. Someday I hope to watch a game in there, and I know my lovely wife would be down for that, as we are both football fans. We’ll work that in at some point in future. I bid the city farewell and point my four-wheeled behemoth at MSP airport, though my mind is already on my developing list of plans for when I return at the end of summer. I wonder if my project will slip out enough to overlap any football games, even if they are only preseason. I plot and scheme and come up with options all the way to the airport. I’m eager to go home to my family Colorado, but just as excited to return to Minnesota in a few short months. Go Vikes!

Original Post from early May 2019.

*The Blackstone will be featured in one of my upcoming Chicago Series posts.

Central California Coast – May 2018

I stood on the the edge of a grassy bluff, overlooking breaking waves, and felt the sharp coolness of sea air on my cheeks and bare legs. Work was a distant memory, and I realized at that moment I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Views of the Pacific along a trail in Estero Bluffs State Park.

A path ahead led straight to the water and was surrounded by a wide meadow of tall grasses and tiny, blooming flowers. Part of the Estero Bluffs State Park, this trail system hugs the Pacific Coastline for miles in either direction. The panoramic vista of the ocean was breathtaking, a broad expanse of water uninterrupted to the horizon and teeming with wildlife. Pelicans skimmed briskly over the surface, searching for fish. Cormorants dove recklessly, headfirst into the sea, as they too hunted for their supper. Smaller seabirds floated overhead, calling to each other. Harbor seals and sea lions peeped at me above the waves, their bobbing heads and inquisitive eyes visible for brief moments before they ducked out of view.

Several breaks along the bluffs allow access to the beach.

I started to walk, taking my time and noting the details of the landscape. Directly ahead of me on the trail low cliffs gave way to crumbled rock, then transitioned to tidal shelves buffeted by the waves in some places, but in others, were dry enough for me to scramble safely across. A few cormorants and gulls perched on rocky islets just beyond the break of the surf. Tangles of enormous kelp ebbed and flowed in knots scattered around the calmer inlets nearby. Morro Rock was a faded watercolor, far distant, a huge outline of domed rock on the southern horizon.

The warm, late day sun was an amber disk that slipped slowly behind smooth, rounded green hills in the distance. The angle of the coastline was such that instead of the sunset viewing I expected over the Pacific, the light show was actually starting behind me. The sky overhead was powder blue, slowly giving way to hints of pink, purple, and gray, as the clouds crept in and the day drew to a close. Over the course of the last few years I’d had the opportunity to visit many beautiful places around the U.S., but this one was rapidly becoming one of my very favorite locations of all time. I was near the ocean, my happy place, surrounded by mountains and hills and wine country, in Central Coast California, one of the prettiest parts of the U.S. I’d ever visited. Not much was better than this.

Harbor seal’s dry perch; Morro Rock visible in the distance.

As the sunset waned, a twinkle of lights along the shore caught my eye, and in my line of sight a large, whitish-gray fluffy pile atop a rock in the ocean suddenly moved. Startled, I took a second to realize one of the harbor seals had settled there, dry and cozy, out of reach of the waves. The seal studied me suspiciously from a distance, before curling back up to sleep. I watched him, amused, and savored the moment. I decided not to fall into taking photos or posting my whereabouts online. Instead, I wanted to be present, and remember as much as I could of this experience, for as long as I could. Most of my days were spent on the phone or on a computer, on a plane or driving endless miles, so this respite was welcome.

A reminder to tread lightly in this beautiful place.

Around me, birds sang, the breeze stirred the tall grasses, and the ceaseless crash of the waves lulled me. No other people were around. I breathed in a hint of salt on the air and stood for a long time before I finally continued down the path along the water. I walked for an hour before I lost the light, finding rocky outcroppings to climb, sandy stretches of beach to traverse, and new, striking views of the water and the cliffs with each turn of the trail. Informative signs along the way informed me that seals (harbor and elephant), sea lions, and all sorts of sea birds populated this stretch of protected shoreline. As I walked I also surprised a few rabbits and ground squirrels amongst the wildflowers. To my delight, at one point while scanning the waves, I realized several seals I spotted had babies swimming with them. Another helpful trail sign explained this area was a nursery for marine life. The seal babies were shy, I only caught a few brief glimpses as they swam with their mothers, but was sure I could count at least three separate sightings of the little ones during my hike. Seeing them was an added bonus, on an evening I already felt was quite perfect.

***

“What made tonight special for you?”

I was asked this question much later, post hike, while checking out at Trader Joe’s. The clerk who spoke to me was warm, earnest, and the way he asked gave me pause. I considered my answer for a moment.

“I just hiked the coast. And I don’t live here.” I shook my head, smiling. How could I explain what an incredible experience I’d had, discovering the coastal hiking trails along Highway 1? How different the landscape here was, compared to my home in Colorado? The clerk’s genuine delight at my answer made me laugh.

“Awesome!” he gushed. “We love it when visitors come here and see firsthand how amazing this part of the world really is.” I had to agree.

Cheerfully, the young man bagged my evening snacks: a mozzarella stick wrapped in prosciutto, a small package of plantain chips, and a bottle of a local chenin blanc/viognier blend. He chattered away about further hiking spots I should experience as soon as possible. I promised to find as many as I could before my two weeks’ worth of work in the area came to an end.

Cayucos was one of those suggestions I pursued later in the week, after a relatively short work day. The small seaside resort town turned out to be one of the top highlights of my trip. Less than a half hour from my lodging in the city of Atascadero, the drive to there was scenic and pleasant. I navigated winding roads lined with tall, leafy oaks and caught glimpses of wineries in the distance. Soon, the scenery opened up, and once again the Pacific coastline filled my view. When I arrived in Cayucos, my first stop was a restaurant with a name that made me chuckle – Duckie’s Chowder House. But their reviews were very good, so I had to try the place out. First, though, the beautiful boardwalk and long pier I spotted as I parked my rental car needed exploring.

Looking out to sea, in the direction of Morro Bay.

I parked next to the beach and walked the length of the pier first, to take a few pictures. Sea gulls perched on the weather-worn wooden rails and lazily floated on the breeze overhead. Several fishermen cast lines and watched them drift in the water. One pulled out a large, wiggling fish while I watched. This reminded me I was hungry, so I soon headed back towards Duckie’s. Inside the small, open air joint the menu was posted behind the ordering counter. I studied their offerings, my mouth watering in anticipation. They had plenty of seafood options, of course: Fish and Chips, Fish Tacos, and Fried Oysters, Calamari, or Clams (all served with Chips). Diners could order at the counter, were given a slender metal stand holding an order number card. The pleasant waitstaff would shortly after bring your food to whichever table you chose. I found a seat with an ocean view, and ordered their signature New England Clam Chowder, a Shrimp Cocktail, and Caesar Salad, along with a refreshing, beachy Cali-Squeeze Blood Orange Hefeweizen by SLO* Brew. The chowder was thick, creamy, well-seasoned, and worth the hype. The light, summery beer paired well with it, too, and I delighted in taking turns between the warm, rich soup, and the sips of cold, refreshing beer. I happily polished off my dinner and resumed wandering around the pier and adjacent beach, to see as much as I could before night fell.

Entering Duckie’s Chowder House, which smelled divinely of delicious fried things.

Surfers in thick wetsuits caught waves in the chilly ocean below. A fiesty corgi pup barked at passers-by on the boardwalk as his owner tried to shush him. Children clambered around the playground, hooting and laughing. I walked a little further, and I found myself fascinated with the driftwood sculptures and structures previous visitors had erected on the sand. One was rounded, like a squat teepee, and another set seemed to be a wedding arch and bonfire at the ready, perhaps for an upcoming seaside wedding ceremony.

The hour grew late, and I realized it was time for me to call home to talk with my better half and our children. I found a bench by the pier and dialed. We caught up on the events of our respective days, and I showed them my beachy surroundings via the magic of FaceTime. We sang songs together, our usual bedtime custom. Reluctantly we all said goodbye, and I reflected that they were the only thing missing from this trip. I don’t mind experiencing new places on my own, but with my loves alongside me these new adventures were so much more fulfilling. My work at the time didn’t lend itself to bringing the family along on these trips, however. Maybe someday it would.

A little melancholy, I strolled back to my car and once again headed west towards Estero Bluffs State Park. Dusk was already falling, so I knew I was short on time to safely stroll this remote, wild area. A new turnoff caught my attention, so I parked about a half mile prior to the spot I found during my first visit a few nights previous. I quickly hiked down into the broad, flat plain between Highway 1 and the cliffs, mesmerized as I had been before by the view of soft green landscape in the rapidly dimming light. If only I could run my hands over acres, miles, and feel its smoothness, I mused. I took in the scenery and the last remnants of the sunset, this time in full view as the sun lowered silently towards the ocean horizon. I listened to the birds singing all around me, and the rhythm of the waves against the rocks below. Departing was bittersweet; when would I be able to return to this beautiful, peaceful oasis? I envied those who lived close enough to consider this their backyard.

I swear the moth (in flight) is dead center in this picture.

Back at my hotel I jotted notes in my journal, while the details were still crisp and clear. Fragments I hope to hold permanently in my memory – the feel of the brisk air, the smell of salt and kelp, the baby seals frolicking in the ocean, the cold slap of an unexpected wave against my leg as I crouched on a small tidal shelf. How the warm the stones were, when I leaned down to feel their texture with my fingertips. My failed effort to capture a photo of tiny moth that fluttered away as I leaned too close to his gently swaying blade of grass. The call of a tiny, charming bird that sang as I did a 360-degree video on the return trail. His lilting music was the reason I stopped to film there; I wanted to keep that sound, forever.

*San Luis Obispo, a delightful town about twenty minutes inland, and southeast of Cayucos. I’ll cover the fun I had in SLO in a future post.