Saturday afternoon we explored the Old Market section of town and wandered in to the intimate azure of Ahmad's. When in Omaha, have Persian food of course. I had never had poloe [sic], a savory stew spooned over saffron rice. I need to find a proper recipe online. An initial glance is just giving me "rice, butter, salt and pepper" and this does not even begin to tell the story of the layers of spices that were going on my plate on this day. There was lemon, garlic and a bit of spice for starters. The dressing on the salad was a toasty tahini-informed delight and the slices of banana ringing the side of the plate are offered to balance the palate, or so I was informed. Our server was helpful in giving us some insight into the menu, which was really only slightly different from the Middle Eastern cuisines we’ve eaten our way through in the past, but she tolled a tone of caution when I inquired about “doog.” This was a beverage I had never heard of before. “It’s a sour, yogurty drink, but not sweet like a lassi. People come in here and order it thinking they’re being all adventurous, but then they don’t like it and the owner gets pissed because it’s kind of a pain in the ass to make it.” I took this as the double doog dare and ordered one. As if on cue, the owner emerged from the back to holler something to his wife who was sitting across the restaurant folding napkins and wouldn’t you know he was wielding a three-foot long spear on which he was molding some sort of meat. But yelling and wielding a spear… did give me pause about the doog.
So when the innocuous-looking icy beverage arrived, I sipped with only slight trepidation. And behold- it was a watery version of kefir. A nice slightly sour, slightly astringent compliment to the creaminess and warmth of the poloe. I need to remember that it takes more to give me the gastronomical willies than soured yogurt.
Hmm- diversion: a list of foods that HAVE given me the gastro willies. The smell of my grandma A’s duck’s blood soup boiling on the stove; the fermented soybean stuff that S once pulled out of her roommate’s fridge and said “I’m Japanese and even I can’t stand the smell of it.”; menudo; in fact, much of the cringe-worthy are animal in origin, except for the fermented soy gunk.
After eating at Ahmad’s we poked around some used bookstores and then hit the road for Lincoln. A short distance west of Omaha, a regatta of hot air balloons arced over the highway which was pretty breathtaking. Arriving in Lincoln, we had time enough to shower and grab a cup of coffee at The Mill, or Mills, or the coffee shop that came with the endorsement of writers and grad students. Sugar and caf enough to wire me for my reading, which I think went well and was such a joy to give in what I think was the first Philip Johnson building I’ve ever set foot in.
After the reading, the organizers led us to Yia-yia’s, a pizza-serving public house with a bewildering beer selection. J and I decided to drink local, at least for starters, which in Lincoln means Fort Collins, CO.
Enter 90 Shilling Ale. I’m typically an IPA kind of gal, but this balanced ale gave me a lesson in all the other flavors that can balance out a hoppy brew if given the opportunity.
J followed up with a Levity ale, from the same brewer as the Shilling, while I pulled my usual Rachel Ray and left my next selection up to the fancy of the Yia-yia proprietor. After assessing my likes and dislikes- and that I didn’t want to spend 20 bucks for a pint- she plucked down a medicinal looking bottle of an English persuasion. T'was St. Peter's IPA. Reporting back to the table to the approving nods of the beer aficionados, I confessed that I was under the guidance of the woman at the bar. She, they divulged, has an oracle-like sense for matching people with beer, made possible, in no small part, by her encyclopedic knowledge of ales the world over. Ironically- and perhaps this is nothing more than a grad student yarn- this woman who is the buyer for this, a comprehensive beer establishment, has no personal inclination to drink beer. Is this a form of objectivity? I wonder.
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Sunday morning- after a bracing jog that criss-crossed the University of NE campus and most of downtown Lincoln, we walked over to the Green Gateau at the recommendation of a professor friend. Even if it weren’t nestled on a block of strip clubs and auto repair shops, this little French country-inn themed spot would be a delightful gem. We were seated in reverent wooden booths, cozily tucked in the back of this home-like eatery. As it turned out, I was flanked by a George Bernard Shaw quote painted on the wall: “Everything ends this way in France— everything. Weddings, christenings, duels, funerals, swindlings, diplomatic affairs—everything is a pretext for a good dinner. There is no love sincerer than the love of food.”
For the love of food, J enjoyed eggs benedict over crab cakes and asparagus with an herbed potato pancake. Fresh fruit and multigrain pancakes for me.
Later in the day we ended up back in Ahmad’s neighborhood for a nosh before our flight and popped into a bright and spacious coffeehouse-looking place called Delice. Next time I’m in Omaha I’m coming back to this place when I’m not still full from a hearty breakfast because their homemade soups, quiches and sandwiches looked and smelled like meals that belied any other take away counter I’ve bellied up to in recent memory. I had a bite of J’s soup, a jazzy Hungarian mushroom number all aglow with fresh dill. This is one I intend to try to replicate at home. The savory offerings at Delice are, I think, intended to play second fiddle to the bakery, which someone has seriously devoted themselves to. While I sat drinking coffee and eavesdropping on the indie-rock kids at the table behind us pining about a possible move to Chicago, J snuck off and returned, to my surprise, with an irresistible pumpkin ginger tart. The crust was pure crumbly, buttery goodness, and the interior was pumpkin’s best impression of velvet I’ve ever tasted. The main ginger component was in the crumble topping where bits of candied ginger mingled with the butter baubles indigenous to the crumb pie lot. I have a notion to replicate this one at home as well, perhaps bumping up the pumpkin interior with a bit of soy.
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