Salt Lake love: Good eats

Oh, the eating we will do. This is how I think about any trip out of Wyoming. Salt Lake and Denver are the closest major cities, but though we may get there fairly often, I try to never eat the same place twice. Too many good choices!

This trip we discovered Ruth's Diner in Emigration canyon where the biscuits actually pleased the biscuit connoisseur (as did the homemade raspberry jam). The freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice made me pretty happy, too.

Everything there was wonderful, even the phone booth we had to cram into because the waiting room was full.

While Jack was entertaining folks at the IDOS convention, I found gems like Frida's Bistro:

Where this guy stared at me while I ate. 

Mazza, yummy Middle Eastern fare

(notice I also like eating at odd times when I have the place nearly to myself):

And then there was this gourmet grocer, Liberty Heights Fresh, where the cheesemonger helped me select a local chevre that had been mixed with apricot preserves and honey. I dipped two dates in it for dessert. YUM.

Oh, how good food makes me happy. Like the fresh (this morning) egg omelet with caramelized onions, spinach and feta my honey made me for breakfast today.

His and hers vacations: day one

Jack and I spent the weekend in Salt Lake City, though his tale of his time there is far different from mine. We did what many like us (meaning in love but with our own set of interests) do when traveling: divide and enjoy.

We were there for the International Dutch Oven Society's World Championship Cook-off, where Jack was the on-site entertainment, spouting poetry to draw crowds into their corner of the International Sportsman's Expo, where the IDOS event is held.

The first couple of years we went I stayed, but I'll confess the folding chairs, camo-clad crowd, taxidermy decor and excruciating testosterone level were not my idea of a good time. They aren't for Jack, either, but for him the cooking and the Dutch oven bonding made up for it. For me, staying meant no time to appreciate being in the city.

So Friday morning I dropped him off at the back door and went off on my merry way. Stop one: Horse Crazy to find some breeches that weren't eight sizes too big. So sorry I didn't take a picture of the corgi puppy they had in the store. She was precious. All ears and feet. Scored a great Ariat vest from their consignment section. Exercised great restraint in the tack and footwear departments.

A store full of English riding apparel, tack and accoutrement? Not even in Jack's alley.


Stop two: Shopping. I know most women would probably use exclamation points for shopping, but I am NOT a fan of trying on clothes. I do what I have to do. For 15 years I have been shopping in the same store. Buying the same brands. I'm quite at a loss now, but I have to have new clothes. Nothing fits. I tried on approximately eighty-six thousand items and bought four.

I ask you - does your husband enjoy clothes shopping with you? I didn't think so.


That chore done, it was on to the fun stuff. Consignment stores! The treasures Joan at for the love of a house finds inspired me to do some of my own digging. In case you are ever in SLC and have the same predilection, here are some places to try: Now and Again, Secondhand Chic, and Vintage Butterfly.

As for Jack's day? He brought a woman to tears (of laughter) with "The Bra", noshed on the competitor's fare and bonded with Dutch oven celebrity Cee Dub.

Good day had by all. :)

By the power vested in them

You will not leave!

Amuse bouche

If you ever have occasion to ask me about places to visit in certain cities I will invariably start with restaurant advice. In my hometown, my favorite is the Corsican Restaurant. In college it was Isaac’s Deli. Whenever anyone mentions Salt Lake City I ask if they’ve visited the Beehive Tea Room before they get to the word ‘City’.
Food is very important to me. After a life of quantities of food now I crave quality. For me, that means original, interesting combinations and definitely locally-owned eateries.
While in Kansas City visiting Jack’s family for Christmas, I ached for exciting dining experiences. We love where we live, but eating out in small town Wyoming isn’t exactly memorable; when I get the chance to tickle the taste buds, I try to do it up right.
On this trip we scored two hits in the gastronomic arena: The Blue Nile Café in River Market and the Fuji Steakhouse in Liberty.
The Blue Nile, a tiny Ethiopian place, was not a popular choice for the children in the group, but at least a couple of us were literally moaning with delight over our the injera, sampler platter and drinks (fresh mango juice and fresh ginger juice).
Neither of the moaners was Jack, by the way. He ate the kids’ Chinese leftovers. Those of us with discerning palates, however, ate with the kind of abandon that can create problems later.
“Um, it was red. And had lentils in it. Do you know what it was?” We pointed to the blank slice of plate. I was bemoaning our lack of options in Wyoming when I realized I could make my own yummy red stuff. Except I didn’t know what recipe to look up. Thankfully, the waitress did.
The red stuff, a.k.a. Misir watt, is on tap for today. Lemme tell ya how excited Jack is about this.
notsomuch.
Anyway, the second eating adventure was delicious, but the excitement was as much in the delivery as the consumption. There was moaning, yes, but a lot of laughter. If you have not been to a Japanese Steakhouse, you are in for a treat. It was my first time and we had a blast. The onion volcano, the super sharp knives slicing and dicing and giant spatula flipping and flicking (shrimp to diner’s mouths, or noses in Jack’s case), the Asian-accented jokes.
Jack, drooling over the cooking tools as much as the KC Strip, reached out to take a look at the spatula resting just behind his plate while the chef was stirring up vegetables on the other side of the grill.
Kawack! Jack nearly lost his finger.
The chef made his point without even turning his head, then grinned:
“I love you, man.”

Husking corn

nebraskamotel
Originally uploaded by coralinad

For some, vacationing involves getting to stay in posh hotels with luxurious sheets, fancy soaps and beautiful views. For us, at least twice a year it involves getting to discover a new temporary residence in the middle of that most popular of destinations, central Nebraska. We are spending most of our Christmas Eve here this year.

At one time, this region was rather romantic for us. One of our first times together was spent in Ogallala, NE. I nearly wrote that this was along the shores of Lake McConaughy, but though it should have been and we expected it to, it did not. It occurred along the edge of a sand dune that used to be underwater. Thanks to drought, the reservoir had shrunk such that the edge of the lake was now over a quarter of a mile distant from the lake-edge campsites.

Jack drove from Missouri and I drove from Wyoming. It was Memorial Day weekend and we only had enough time to meet in the middle: Ogallala. It was a lovely weekend during which he cooked breakfast outside on the campfire for me one day and I made him pancakes with homemade applesauce inside the next day while raindrops plopped on the camper. It was perhaps the great moist towelette incident that bonded us forever, but that is a story for another day.

I offer this simply for the context that central Nebraska is, for us, covered with the haze of romantic nostalgia. Or was.

I killed it this Spring.

Today, we’ve risen in North Platte and departed to continue our journey. It is where we begin to get excited about life in the city where we’re headed. For example, there is a Starbucks here. Gingerbread Latte! WOOT!

But last trip, I got up on my 'support local businesses' high horse and used my fancy new Droid to find a nearby non-chain hotel for us to stay the night. I don’t recall the name, but suspect it was something like Fort So-and-So Inn. Sounded good. The directions gave it street cred, sending us past the bloodsucking highway-adjacent concrete cookie cutter hotels and restaurants. We left those lights behind, passed the grain elevator and a then began passing more and more bars before crossing several railroad tracks. No lights now, just shuttered old buildings with aging architecture. No downtown revival here.

Eventually, we arrived. It seemed stripped down but acceptable from the outside, which was fine with us. We are cotton folk, not silk or satin. But as soon as we walked in I knew we should have stuck close to the familiar chains. They might be bloodsuckers, but at least I knew we’d get back on our way with some quality rest-eye behind us.

This place might have been used as a set on CSI. Seedy isn’t the word. Visions of getting caught up in a sting operation and ending up in jail flooded my head. I didn’t answer the surly Indian man who came from behind the bright flowery curtain to inquire what the heck we were doing there.

He seemed astonished we sought a room. He could barely find the various office implements he needed to check us in. While he searched, I looked around. The walls and floors were stained and damaged. The windows looking on to the pool had a kind of permanent scum clouding them. Hand-written signs warned around every corner of things not working as they should. A circa-1983 television with rabbit ears and –I’m not even kidding, aluminum foil- sat on a TV stand. Next to it was a large golden statue of one of the Hindu goddesses. Bright fabric was tacked on the walls, hanging like sheets across the windows in a meth house. Jack got the logistics handled and shuffled me out.

The room was pretty dingy, but we aren’t the type to walk away and go somewhere else. We made do. The main feature was a sagging bed. There was a television, but despite posted signs the only channels were piped in from India. Jack tossed the remote, groaned and got ready for bed. I explored the bathroom. At one time – one I tried to focus on – it would have been charming. I visualized it as sparkly and new, an exciting destination for a family venturing from the farm in their shiny Ford Fairlane.

Those days were long gone. Tiles were missing, rings stained the sink and tub. My showering could wait. I swallowed a few extra sleeping pills and tried to get some sleep.

We got out of there before dawn.

Ever since, we have driven no more than a couple of hundred yards from the highway for our sleeping quarters. Nebraska lost some luster that night. Now, we just hand our money over to the grumbling teenager at the desk of the concrete cookie cutter hotel and dive into our predictable rooms. And drive thru Starbucks in the morning.