Smoked Trout Salad, Outfitted

The Smoked Trout Salad was so good, we went back, and I ordered it again.


With all the rivers and Lake Powell right there, well, in the general vicinity, I should not have been so surprised to find smoked trout on the menu.  The first time I ordered it, the meal arrived at our outdoor table on a fisherman's platter with a thick base layer of fresh mixed greens, long, thick toast points of country bread, cheese, olives, and two generous fillets of smoked trout.  

We were six days in from our jumping off point in Las Vegas, and the meal satisfied.


The outdoor table and matching chairs were black iron, and set with four or five other tables on the wooden porch of Escalante Outfitters.  We'd restocked here before, but didn't recall the cafe, now wireless, that is accessible through the east wall of the store.  Along the northwest corner of the Outfitters is the cash register, behind which is a cozy display of spirits.  I can't be sure, but it may be the only retailer in town that carries this kind refreshment; the town's grocery store pretty much sticks with milk, juice, and soda.  There's a gas station that sells hot dogs and hamburgers, and an intriguing cafe that advertises Mexican food.  I'm saving that for the next trip.  The cafe proper, which apparently focused on just coffee, never seemed to be open.  There's another restaurant up the road a couple of miles that apparently makes a killer sandwich.  That too is for the next trip.


I like this place, this store, which I first visited fourteen years ago, and think of often, which is odd considering it's really just a modest outfitter in the middle of what most people would describe as nowhere.


There's just something different about this store, in this place.  You walk into a cafe hanging off the side of an outfitters, mostly empty tables, a couple of guys peering into their open laptops, a thinly packed display counter, and you just don't expect a whopping good Smoked Trout Salad.  


This is Escalante, Utah, long inhabited by several waves of Native Americans.  In 1876, Mormon pioneers showed up, fleeing among other things religious persecution in a country that had very recently established itself on certain freedoms, including that of religion.  They chose to settle, and there they remain, just a handful of generations after building their first homesteads, many of which you can discern on a slow ride through town from their dark, worn wooden exteriors, simple yet functional design, and sagging roofs.


There's a solemnity in Escalante, almost as if there's a collective "shhh" to remind you that you are deep into a place that is still closer to earth, in its true form, than to man and his forms.


The Outfitters is the symbolic and functional portal, the one place that holds the most things of modern man.  Step outside and you are almost alone again.  No pedestrians, an occasional drive-by vehicle, a few homes that seem uninhabited, but are.  I've often wondered "where is everybody?"


They do come out; the grocery store had two cashiers on duty.  The gas station had two extremely accommodating attendants.  And on Sunday, the day we went back for seconds on that salad, we witnessed several on the Latter-Day walk.  There are farms, with plants growing.  But I've never seen anyone actually farming.  There are homes, but I've never seen anyone sitting on a porch, or coming or going, or swinging on a swingset, or mowing the lawn.  I did see one dog huffing along the side of a road.  I preferred to think he knew where he was going.


Is it possible that this dog's own ancestors accompanied their pioneer companions and  cattle from this town to the Escalante River, seeking a pathway to a more southern land of plenty?  It is well documented that they came through here, and kept south, stopping to make camp at a massive red rock garden.  This garden, one entirely made by earth and no man, is entered from the west through an imposing natural esplanade named Dance Hall Rock.  Just 132 years ago, this abandoned rock rocked with the square-dancing pioneers who had paused on their journey to wait for the scouting and road construction party ahead to pave their way.

Beyond this entry Rock, more rock-- actually Navajo sandstone, famous in the region for its direct relationship to dinosaurs-- in massive undulating mounds, with pits carpeted by desert gardens that landscapers break their backs to emulate.  You could spend hours scaling the rocks, seeing not a soul, hearing not a soul.  Feeling just the wind and the sun, widening your eyes to filter the bright oranges, greens, yellows, pinks, and blues.  


You could get stuck in one of the pits and die.  Quickly.  Or slowly.  I'm serious.


Which is maybe why, after peering into several of these pits and considering such a lonely death, I felt the comfortable joy of a homecoming and was so happy to eat that man-made Smoked Trout Salad back at the Outfitters. 

One Tiny Enoteca

When you're walking the streets of unfamiliar cities, it's often best to surpress the survival of the fittest instinct and squeeze yourself into and through as many dark alleyways as you can find.  If you've been to places like Venice or Florence, in Italy, you know exactly what I mean.  I did this recently, a few times, and oh what beautiful gems were hidden behind the soot-encrusted gray facades!  When the artist Brunilleschi was just figuring out how to illustrate using perspective 600 years ago, he was probably standing at the opening of one end of these long alleys, or maybe he was standing right here, on the edge of the Arno:

Ponte Vecchio at Dusk

I could write miles of paragraphs about the tasty meals I've eaten inside some of these gems, and maybe I will, eventually.  Today, I will write about the tiniest gem of them all, Il Santino Bevitore.


Il Santino is one of those places I can't get out of my mind, and I regret that it is on another continent.  This enoteca gastronomia is located just enough off the beaten path from the Ponte Vecchio, closer to the Ponte alla Carrola, on Via Santo Spirito, Firenze.


I came upon this little enoteca at the end of a long, cool, pedestrian day that included a thorough tour of the Pitti Palace and accompanying Boboli Gardens.  I was with my mother, and we were among the last people to squeeze out of a side gate at dusk.  We were hungry, and in a mindset and position to find a nice meal.  We meandered through the streets looking for an open market that we had encountered earlier in the week, hoping to grab some good street food and a few mementos.


We happened upon a modest storefront on Via dei Serragli that caught our attention.  The establishment was, and still is, Silathai Thai Massage Center.  After five days of trekking the cobblestone of Firenze, Silathai had exactly what we needed.  Foot massages.  


We went in.


The foyer was like a sanctuary, dimly lit and peaceful.  The ceilings were frescoed with  biblical themes, complete with cherubic angels cushioned on billowy white clouds floating in sky blue.  The man behind the desk, at street level, greeted us warmly, and after a discussion of services, put us in the books for full body massages.  Unfortunately, he explained, he could not take us both at the same time, at that moment, but would we be willing to sit in the lounge and have tea for 10 minutes, when both his masseuses would be available?


Sit in the lounge we did, drinkng tea and invoking pranayama.  The massages were fabulous.  We regrouped in Silathai's lounge, that space which blends historic Firenze and ancient mudra in sublime balance.

The Before Picture
(no, seriously, a sculpture from the Palazzo Medici)

Speaking of blends, it was time for cocktails.  Backs cracked and feet restored, we hit the streets, now pitch dark, looking for our next feast.  That's when we found Il Santino.

We came upon Il Santino just past 7 o'clock, er, 19:00, before which time it is a waste to even think about eating dinner in Italy, and in just enough time that we arrived at Il Santino before almost everyone else did.  The floor-to-ceiling glass entry door opened onto one end of a deli counter, which ran most of the distance to the back of the enoteca.  Behind the counter was a brasserie style mirrored wall, and on top of the counter was a massive red and silver meat slicer.  All around, animal parts, salted and dry.  The young proprietor spent his evening loading these parts onto the slicer then transferring the cuts onto serving plates.  Inside the counter, a few traditional Tuscan dishes in various jars and on platters.


Opposite the mirrored wall a few customers sat on a dark wooden bench which also ran the length of the enoteca.  Four tables stood out from the bench, each surrounded by a chair or two.  We pounced on the last one of four tables in the entire shoebox-sized gastronomic delight.  The tables were wooden, round, and about 18" in diameter, roughly the size of an extra large cheese pizza.


Non parlo Italiano, and the server didn't speak English.  She got the point however that we wanted two good glasses of white wine, meat, cheese, and bread.  We tasted a couple of options in the wine category and selected a crispy, cool Italian blend.  Not long after, two generous antipasti platters appeared, one spread with freshly sliced meats, the other covered with small mounds of regional cheeses and a fruit spread.  Next to us sat a family of four, and we gawked curiously at the dishes that periodically arrived at their table.


Stuffed, we paid il conto and left this tiny enoteca, with its meat slicer, wine, and four tables.   It was a place you might not expect to find, or enter, at the end of an alley or the foot of a blackened building.  Despite its diminutive facade, the life inside was big, bold, and familial.