Day 1: Delicias Colombianas

Though I had planned to approach the month’s proceedings with a pure palate and psyche, I entered Friday experiencing the residual effects of already having eaten Mexican every day of the week (including a breakfast burrito that morning) and the number of PBRs it takes me to duet Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” to a completely empty room, save my singing partner, one committed friend, and a very gracious karaoke jockey (KJ?). O, cruel Fate!

Therefore, it came as relief and elation to break from Mexican fare and go, accompanied by two Spanish teachers, one a Colombiana, to Pineville's Las Delicias.

At least in its visage, this place epitomizes the kind of establishment I seek to frequent over the next month. Delicias shares space in a short stripmall on South Blvd. with a European grocery and T & A Lingerie. (Qué rima!) Inside, the walls are plastered with the kind of posters that adorn every high school Spanish classroom in America: big faded shots of Bogotá that were likely distributed in the late 1970s by Colombia’s Department of Commerce in efforts to encourage trade and tourism. A television mounted in the corner blared the voices of two Mexican gossip personalities discussing the results of Mexico’s 1-1 draw with South Africa. Behind the counter is a rack of baked goods including buñuelos that appeared to be larger, unsugared versions of those served with hot chocolate syrup in Spain.

Following pleasantries with our very amiable waitress, our leader, Marta, started us with a round of juices. After being tempted by maracuya, tomate de arbol, and mora (yellow passion fruit, sweet tomato, and blackberry, respectively), all of which can be ordered in a base of milk or water, I ended up with a glass of guanabana con leche. Unfortunately, there is no translation for guanábana; it’s simply a tropical fruit we don’t have here. The beverage was white and frothy, with a subtle fruit taste along the lines of a coconut confection or Spanish horchata.

For the main course, I was unable to resist Bandeja Paisa, which on the menu is followed with the tagline “Most traditional Colombian recipe,” despite the fact that I would like to question whether varying degrees of traditionality is actually a defensible concept. I didn’t bring it up to the waitress but later wondered how many virgins had to pass through fire in order to make my meal possible. The Bendeja Paisa is basically a platter of food representative of the Paisa region of Colombia, and most of the plate seems like it would be comfort food to people all over Central and South America. The carne asada, rice, beans, and chorizo were all pretty standard. Of course, the half an avocado and fried egg on top are always a nice touch. Unfortunately, the two elements of of the platter with which I was unacquainted didn’t do much for me. First, the arepa, basically a bland cornmeal disc, tasted like a bland cornmeal disc. Apparently, as Marta instructed me all too late, I was supposed to break it up and spread it throughout the platter, thereby infusing the food around the arepa with cornmealy blandness. But she also told me that arepas come in all sorts of varieties, so I will be back on that horse if that is indeed an idiom. Second, the chicharrón was about as appetizing as the fried pig skin and attendant fat that it is. Marta told me to remove the skin from the fat and eat the former, a task I found close to impossible and entirely unrewarding. Actually, if I had to choose between skin and fat, I’d choose the latter, which was reminiscent of the fried part of fried chicken, only much denser.

Score: A draw. I’ll be back to get my juice on, try some pastries, and get what Marta got. Big surprise that Brittany and I got out-ordered by a Colombian at a Colombian restaurant.