The guard has changed

 

Me and Megan at Don Artemio.
I should have taken pictures of the food.

The Burtons are home, exhilarated but a wee bit fatigued, Megan is on her way to Austin, and routine has settled over our compound. I’m about to fix tuna salad for lunch—what could be more routine?

My week of kids ended with a dining adventure last night. Megan and I went to Don Artemio, the new, upscale steakhouse and tequila bar that has Fort Worth agog. I am by no means knowledgeable enough to critique food from central Mexico (the only other Don Artemio is in Saltillo, near San Miguel), but I can tell you what I liked and what I was uncertain about.

Megan was absolutely fascinated by the décor and the “feel” of the restaurant, especially the thousands of hand-made Saltillo bricks that make up walls, deliberately just a kilter off. The industrial ceiling with its ducts is dark gray, and the colors throughout are muted, perfect foil for the blue-and-white molcajete that several dishes are served in. At one end of the large space, sound is baffled by an intriguing installation of yarn and wood that looks a little like one loom after another.

We split the guacamole with chicharrones of ribeye, and it was wonderful. Megan loves hot, spicy things; me, not so much. In fact, not at all. So for me the guacamole was perfect—creamy, smooth, and flavorful without a bite but a perfect contrast in texture and taste to the tiny bits of delicious steak. I am also always cautious about ceviche because it often contains shrimp, and I’m allergic. But this was salmon and whitefish in pungent lime sauce. Tasty, but the fish was diced so fine! I’d like the pieces a bit larger.

Megan had a salad of grilled hearts of palm, tomato, avocado, and panela cheese, which proved to be a solid block of a mild cheese—all with a chili vinaigrette. Most people scorn tongue, but I grew up eating it and like it, though my acquaintance is almost entirely with corned beef tongue, as served in our local deli. The menu last night offered tongue tacos (Taco de Lengua) with salsa verde and tequila-cured tomato, onion, and cilantro. I asked the server about the dish, and she said it was one of their most popular. Belatedly, it occurred to me that was probably a clever way for her to encourage me to order it. At any rate I did, and it was superb—rich tasting. The meat had been braised overnight. The salsa was too hot for me, but I put some of the tomato on one of my three tacos and later wished I’d put it inside.

A most satisfying experience. We were too full to even consider tres leches cake or ice cream, but I had a second glass of good chardonnay and Megan had another margarita. Then we drove around the Monticello neighborhood a bit, with Megan remarking that she knew the part of Fort Worth she grew up in and the area around her high school, but there are large chunks of the city that are strange to her. We had planned to do a quick drive to Mule Alley because she wanted to see the Drover Hotel and other developments in the stockyards, but we ran out of time. Megan’s a lawyer and got stuck on a call so we barely made it to the restaurant for our reservation. I told her that tour is a good reason for her to come back soon.

The Burtons were here when we got home, demanding to know why we’d been out so late (nine o’clock). They were full of stories of Cabo with a crowd of birthday celebrants. Megan and Jordan pored over pictures (I figure I’ll see them later) and laughed as they always do when they’re together. Christian gave up and went inside, and I soon announced I was going to bed. This morning there was no sign of life from the house—oh I did see Christian let a dog out—until ten o’clock when Megan came out. The two sisters had sat on the front porch and finished the bottle of wine Megan brought.

Happy times—and now I hear Helen Corbitt calling me.

Soph says goodnight.
A girl needs a pillow for her head.