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What a great week! I just returned from a few days in the Rocky Mountains. I was there for a writer’s conference organized by one of the publishers I work with.
I feel inspired by the team’s vision and energized by some of the conversations. I also feel an insatiable hunger for Mexican food.
It’s the whitewater rafting that did it.
We spent half a day careening down the rapids and afterwards, on the drive back to the outfitter, I spotted a sign for a local Mexican food joint.
I’ve been craving Mexican food ever since.
That inevitably led to a stop at La Perla on the way home from the airport. Located just across from La Fuente, on 5th & National, La Perla’s food is highly influenced by the flavors of northern Mexico.
Since it was a weeknight, the brightly painted La Perla wasn’t overly crowded (although even when busy they usually turn the tables pretty quickly, and I’ve never had to wait long for a seat).
We snagged a table close to an open window and munched on the quickly delivered chips and salsa. Across the room at the bar, a comfortably dressed crowd of 20-to-30-somethings sipped ice cold margaritas and flirted shamelessly with each other. A few bold souls slammed shots of tequila selected from an impressive array of more than 100 on hand.
The party was on! And it was probably even more ragin’ on the rooftop patio. But after several days in the mountains and 12 hours of travel (I was routed through the notoriously evil Chicago O’Hare which cancelled my connecting flight, misplaced my luggage and forced me to take a bus to Milwaukee), all I could think about was eating enchiladas and getting home.
Thankfully, it didn’t take long for my plate of enchiladas with green sauce to arrive.
No rice and beans for me. Just two homemade tortillas filled with chicken and smothered with cheese and green chili sauce. Ahhhhh.
I know I should've tried something different – like the Tequila Shrimp or the Chicken ole Poblano, but since I don’t let myself indulge in Mexican food very often I have a hard time not ordering my favorites. In my defense, I did try a bite of Scott’s spicy beef burrito, topped with tomatoes, lettuce, cheese and sour cream. It was good, but I still congratulated myself on ordering the enchiladas. They were the perfect end to an almost-perfect week.
Inspired by a recent blog post in Play in the City about the upcoming Kite Festival at Veterans Park (May 27 & 28), Scott and I decided to get a kite and check out the lakeside park for ourselves.
We couldn’t have asked for a better day. The clear, sunny skies and lively wind currents made for perfect kite-flying conditions.
We bought a cool pirate-inspired kite at the on-spot store and within moments had it assembled, launched, and soaring to great heights.
After the rediscovered thrill of kite-flying wore off, we walked around the lake, watched the sailboats skim over the water, and then headed to Alterra at the Lake for coffee.
Although Alterra has several locations, the one across from the marina is my favorite. Housed in a building that used to serve as the Milwaukee River Flushing Station, Alterra offers a uniquely warm yet industrial atmosphere. It boasts soaring walls, massive windows, and it’s almost always packed with locals getting their daily dose of caffeine.
Today it was especially jammed with people; the line actually wrapped around the corner and out the back door. 
No matter. The wait was quick, and within moments I was seated at one of the small, yellow tables beneath the outdoor arbor, sipping an iced coffee.
A self-admitted java junkie who has sipped too many kinds of coffee to count, I can confidently tell you that Alterra’s locally roasted coffees are some of the best around.
I’ve tried a great many of the varieties from Alterra and found all but one to be excellent. Top choices include the Ethiopian Harrar Horse, Delta Mud, Luna Negra, Voltaire’s Passion, and the Kenya AA Nyeri.
My husband swears he saw former Journey frontman Steve Perry here in Milwaukee last weekend.
Who knows?
At any rate, Scott was pretty excited about the potential sighting and tried to explain his still-lingering passion for Journey tunes to me in much the same way I seem to remember Dave Eggers attempting to describe it for his little brother in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.
Given that we have dramatically different taste in music, I think I responded in much the same way Eggers’ little brother did. (That is to say, with somewhat minimal enthusiasm.)
Scott seemed a little disappointed by my inability to grasp the greatness of it all, but what can I say. I came of age during the era of Grunge and besides, I was just having a strange day.
People kept wishing me Happy Mother’s Day. I know the individuals meant well, but frankly, it felt a little weird because I don’t have any children. Not yet anyway.
Someday I hope we do have kids. And I hope they grow up to be extremely happy as well fabulously wealthy so they can afford to house their much-loved mamma in a villa somewhere on the Mediterranean coast.
If for some reason that plan doesn’t pan out, maybe they can at least take me to Yaffa for lunch or dinner. Yaffa is a hot spot right near the Pabst Theater that offers Mediterranean-inspired fare so tasty you’ll temporarily feel transported to warmer shores.
Last Saturday we braved the seemingly unceasing spring rains to meet our friends Mike and Olga there for dinner.
In warmer weather, the best seats are on the patio, overlooking the river. But for a cool, rainy evening, the cushy front room with a fireplace, low slung seats and dark mahogany tables illuminated by the warm glow of amber-colored Moroccan lamps was positively perfect.
We settled in, ordered some drinks, and between swigs of his Bombay Sapphire Martini and melodramatically- delivered Robert Goulet-inspired one-liners, Mike assured us that Yaffa’s hummus was some of the best he’d ever eaten.
And that’s saying something, since he’s lived and traveled everywhere from Romania, where Olga is originally from, to Spain, Seattle, and any number of places in between.
Trusting his judgment, we ordered the Hummus Falafel Combo (which did indeed prove to be delicious), and some bacon wrapped dates, a decadent treat stuffed with tasty blue cheese.
Los Angeles means a lot of things to me – cool style, sunny (albeit smog-filled) skies, close proximity to both ocean and mountains, and high intensity energy - but mostly it represents an opportunity to score burgers from In-N-Out. In-N-Out burgers have a cultlike following, and for good reason: they are made to order from incredibly fresh ingredients.
I never thought I’d ever eat another burger that would make me to want to travel thousands of miles and brave multiple lanes of jam-packed traffic, but the other day, the Martini Burger at Hi Hat (1701 N. Arlington Place) changed my mind.
Doused with a splash of vodka parmesan sauce and vermouth, then layered with a green olive tapenade, the Martini Burger may have come too late to feed the likes of martini-swilling members of the infamous “Rat Pack,” but it is hands-down one of the best burgers I’ve ever eaten. The minute I saw it on the menu, I knew I had to try it.
When I was what is now referred to as a “tween,” the pinnacle of social interaction was the slumber party. Almost all of which inevitably ended with at least one girl (occasionally me) calling their mom to go home early because someone was being mean to her, while everybody else played truth or dare, watched late night videos, did each other’s hair and makeup, and did our best to stay up ALL NIGHT LONG.
The next morning, some exhausted parent always ran out to grab several dozen donuts and a gallon of milk, which served to give each of us a major sugar rush and hopefully dispel any remnant of the majorly cranky attitudes that can erupt amongst a group of pre-pubescent girls who have just spent the last 10 hours under the same roof.
Personally, I think we could all have benefited even more if only we’d had access to the Milwaukee Mini Donuts available at Sil’s.
I mean really, is there any better way to start a day than with your very own personal bag of cinnamon sprinkled mini-donuts?
I think not.
That’s why this morning I didn’t even bother to “put my face on,” as people where I’m from like to say. I just hopped in the car and drove straight over to Sil’s, on the Eastside.
One bag of cinnamon mini-donuts and a hot coffee later I was a very happy girl.
Mom, you can pick me up now. I’m ready to go home. ;-)
I’m not proud of this, but the truth of the matter is, I’ve been watching a lot of Miami Vice reruns lately. There’s just something about the synth-soaked soundtrack, Sonny Crockett’s pastel suits, and the glow of neon lights that sucks me right in.
In an attempt to redeem myself, let me say that I did finally manage to pull myself away from the Sleuth network long enough to finally finish reading the aforementioned Blue Like Jazz and to make my way over to Balzac.
Balzac is a hipster hangout located right off Brady Street, and if you want to sample a stellar selection of wine it’s THE place to go, boasting its very own Master Sommelier. They offer preselected flights, or you can make your own.
But I wasn’t in a wine sampling sort of mood the evening we went. Instead I decided to keep it simple with a nice glass of Chardonnay. Trouble was, I couldn’t really tell what was on the wine list.
Our quiet corner table was really dark. The kind of dim light that would’ve been perfect for a meeting between two criminal kingpins setting up some covert deal à la Miami Vice style, but not quite so perfect if you are trying to decipher a mulit- page wine list.
We finally tossed the list aside and decided to rely on the expertise of our server. She recommended one of the smooth Chardonnays for me and offered to move us to a more brightly-lit table.
That sounded good to me (the table and the wine). Since I liked her wine suggestion so well, I thought maybe I’d just rely on her wisdom for small plate suggestions as well.
Upon her recommendation, we sampled the mussels, pan poached in a spicy broth with small crusty slices of a baguette, then followed those with the spicy battered “firecracker shrimp,” complete with dipping sauce and a tasty cilantro pesto garnish.
Still feeling like we needed a little something more to nibble on, we asked our server to bring us the petite filet with a sun-dried tomato and porcini demi-glace which also came with some whipped Yukon gold potatoes.
Although I was tempted to have some of the Valrhona chocolate for dessert (you know my penchant for that stuff), I thought maybe I should try a cheese platter instead.
Our server swore by the Tellagio, but they were out so we had Pepper Capri Chevre instead. The creamy goat cheese with zesty pepper positively melted in my mouth; served with thin slices of green and red apples, baguette, walnuts and grapes, it was the perfect ending. Almost as perfect as the final moments of the Miami Vice episode I managed to catch once I got back home. . .
Saturday I snapped open the shades above my kitchen sink while making coffee and found myself eye to eye with a guy roofing the house next door.
I quickly closed the shades and decided we should go out for brunch to escape the annoying pounding (and to get my car away from all the nails and shingles flying down dangerously close.)
I slicked on some lipstick, threw on my sunglasses, and Scott and I headed to a place that always treats us right – Trocadero.
Housed in a completely revamped corner building, Trocadero’s cool black and white tile, large windows, exposed brick walls, and red and black color scheme evoke images of past-visited European cafes.
It even has a full-fledged "tabac" which is well stocked with cigarettes, magazines, newspapers, and a few other amenities. I’m not a smoker, but I love this realistic homage to Francophile culture.
Although Trocadero is endowed with a fantastic terrace and heated patio, we sat inside, listening to the soft sounds of Thievery Corporation, and I sipped a cup of dark French roast coffee (always accompanied by a tiny square of Valrhona chocolate and two sugar cubes).
I scanned the menu and glanced at the group of college students seated across from us. They were getting the party started early (Or maybe Friday night was just ending?) with an array of mimosas, beer, and what appeared to be a mojito. Next to them an artistic looking couple held forth with coffee and in-depth discussion about academic matter too complicated for my not-yet-fully caffeinated mind to fully grasp.
Usually I can’t get enough of the brie, basil and tomato sandwich, but feeling in need of breakfast fare, I ordered the Provence Omelet, which contained delicate leeks, an array of herbs and was topped with a delicious aioli.
I figured Mireille Guiliano, CEO of Clicquot, Inc., and author of French Women Don’t Get Fat, would be pleased with my choice. She’s a big fan of leeks.
Scott, who had made short work of his froth-laden cappuccino, went in a different direction. He decided on a dish made with black beans and avocados that would’ve made any self-respecting Austin-ite proud. It turned out to be delicious, but I thought my omlette, accompained by tiny cubed potatoes and a slice of perfectly buttered toast was the best.
By then, it started to cloud over and looked like rain. Confident that a steady downpour of rain would deter the roofing project for at least a few hours, we headed back home so I could get some work done and, should time permit, finish Blue Like Jazz, a book by Donald Miller that I checked out from the library but like so much I must get my own copy ASAP.
