It was too pleasant for the middle of March. Twilight warmed the red brick buildings of Kansas City Plaza. The walkways took on an orange hue, broken only by the occasional swaying of decorative shrubbery. My roommate Yuuki and I looped the Kansas City Plaza from specialty shops serving the Japanese soda Ramune, Greek Kasseri goat cheese to department chains like Halls and H&M. Yuuki stared into the windows of specialty chocolate shops admiring their construction as an art enthusiast would a review a modern piece of art.

Returning to stay with my parents in Southwest Missouri for Spring Break would normally be against my traveling mindset, but it was economical to return to curb hotel costs.  After all the stories I had come back with from family outings to Kansas City, Yuuki didn’t mind having short spurts of time to sight seeing. She lived in moment, and at this moment, she was getting hungry. As our stomachs growled our feet lead us to W. 47th Street where The Cheesecake Factory and P.F. Chang’s offered the typical food choices found in pedestrian malls. Our restaurant of choice was neither and—unbeknownst to her—the height of food experience.

The clock had struck five when we approached the doorman leaning beside the carved wood doors guarding the entrance. Wearing a loose fitted blouse, skirt, and tights, my all black ensemble off set Yuuki’s printed T-Shirt and faded denim jeans. We were dressed for a casual tour of Kansas City, not a fine dining establishment.

Wavering between disinterest and nonchalance, I assume he expected us to pass him. His only movement in our general direction was to adjust the paisley noose around his neck. However, I grandly opened the door for my friend instead. Straightening to take the door from me as we entered, he was embarrassed by his misperception.

Although I had never been to this particular venue of Fogo De Chao, Brazilian Steakhouses are notorious everywhere for their high quality service, higher price tag, and the highest quantity of steaks, sides, and desserts. The traditional dinner crowd had not arrived. Only one other table—already halfway through their meal—was sat across the room from us. The hostess walked us from the slate tiled floors and stone faceted bar of an entrance to an elegantly spread stemware and white clothed tables. Having barely sat us down at our table, she was already replaced by our headwaiter taking our initial drink orders.

As a first-generation Japanese-American, Yuuki had grown up in two distinctly separate food cultures. Because her father prepared Japanese curry, omelette rice, and fresh roasted pork that would have emptied my wallet at any local Asian restaurant, her family would rarely eat out. Neighborhood potlucks featuring American slow roasted and deep fried foods comprised the majority of her out-of-home food experiences. Since she had only been to a handful of chain restaurants, it became my mission to expand her culinary horizons. 

It must have looked like we were on a date.  The headwaiter explained the all-included 30-item salad and side bar, the green to red chip system, and the ever-replenishing house’s fresh-baked cheese bread.  Yuuki merely bobbed her head up and down. When he turned to leave, I couldn’t tell if her hands shook from anticipation or nervousness as she carefully picked up her stemmed water glass. My hands stumbled across the table passing her the bread. Jumping with excitement, I could only hope my exuberance would spark similar passion to abandon her Japanese upbringing of humility at the dinner table.

Offering imported prosciutto, 24 month aged Parmesan, Brazilian hearts of palm, Italian salami, and even tabbouleh, this establishment tried to fill us before we had even seen any of their fifteen cuts of meat. Her feet padded the ground in a loop. She grabbed the tongs for the smoked salmon, only to put them down and circle back to the cilantro-lime garnish. She went back to the salmon and then again to the mushrooms and then back around, debating whether or not to get the sun-dried tomatoes versus the sliced tomatoes.

Before Yuuki had reached the table, one waiter had removed her napkin from the table while another pulled out her chair. As she got into her seat, her plate was placed on the table and her napkin was placed in her lap. They both walked away to my friend’s mouth still agape, somewhere in the middle of “thank” and “you.” Seeing us settled, our headwaiter returned to suggest the house limeade, blended with fresh limes and sweetened condensed milk. Her face glowed at the thought of unlimited refills of her favorite citrus fruit. We each ordered two.

The first course consisted of smoked salmon, both sun-dried and sliced tomatoes, jumbo asparagus, shitake mushrooms, spinach leaves, cilantro and lime salad, and a basket of warm cheese bread. It’s strange to imagine food in terms of itself. Textures and tastes seem separate when I describe them. Yet, these sides made taste and texture seem inseparable. The asparagus and shitake mushrooms tasted like asparagus and mushrooms—not fancy seasonings or sauces. The bread pulled apart easily. Airy and feathery on the inside, the bread deceptively hid any appearance of cheese until it entered your mouth. Not at all overpowering, the texture blended the cheese taste throughout. The salmon’s subtle saltiness tasted straight from the sea to the smoker.  As I reached for another piece, my fork slipped in my hand. Though I caught the fork, the salmon was not so lucky. Rushing to my aid, a waiter reached into my lap with tongs and removed the salmon. Yuuki did not so much as pause to comment. She moved around her plate en pointe. One small nibble of salmon, one tear of bread, one cut piece of tomato, circling the plate until she reached the beginning again. I returned to the other less suicidal sides relishing their unique tastes myself. Every side was prepared specifically to enhance its individual flavor. Simply seasoned and perfectly paired, we entertained the thought of going back for another salad bar trip. Our eyes traveled instead around the dining room stage. Gaucho chefs were already performing for other diners at this point. Sliding meat off metal skewer onto warmed plates, they leapt from table to table. Having already perused our table’s meat brochure, we eagerly flipped our cards from red (no meat) to green (all the meat please) to begin the second course of our meal.  Within seconds, two additional waiters replaced our dirty plates with clean ones, cleaned the table of any fallen with tongs, and refilled our drinks. As our faces turned bright pink, we thanked the dimmed dinnertime lighting.

We were first presented with garlic-mashed potatoes, polentas (cornmeal), and caramelized bananas My friend smiled knowingly across the table. More starch was only an attempt to restrain our inevitable meat over consumption. The sides remained untouched as various chefs with skewers of meat danced around the dinning room. The meal was as artfully constructed like a ballet performance. Would we like to try the pork ribs? How about the filet mignon? Do you prefer your meat more rare, medium, or well done? I’ll send a fresh cut over for you right away. Our first sides remained untouched never needing to be refilled at the table. Yet, the steam rising from a new side in our headwaiter’s hand attractedgarnered her attention. He had placed a special order for of grilled jalapeños and onions to with our meal. No extra charge.

To make our evening special, one chef brought lamb tenderloin—absent from the menu—to our table. We were the first patrons that night to receive it.

“Did you ladies have any plans tonight?” our gaucho chef server portioned the meat onto our plates as we shook our heads.

“There’s a great concert going on at The Capital Grille tonight,” he continued. “I can’t give you any information, but if you’re interested….”

Another meat waiter ushered him along to begin serving other tables and we turned to the second course of our dinner.

We devoured this new entrée as slowly and tenderly as it had been prepared. She couldn’t stop raving about their succulence. The taste of lamb was now separated into slightly lamb and significantly lamb. Even the chicken became more concentrated in sustenance and texture. The ancho-roasted sirloin overshadowed the more traditional garlic sirloin and both came from the same area of the cow! Eventually, we no longer needed to use the signal chips. Once we had expressed our preferential meats, we were offered them as soon as a fresh skewer hit the dinning room floor.

The gaucho chef appeared again, bearing another skewer of the lamb tenderloin.

“You know, I can’t give you my number, but I can give you pen and paper…” his voice trailed off as Yuuki blinked in response.

“We’re thinking, “ I laughed the situation off. “But we’ve got a long drive ahead of us…” I hoped the dots spoke for themselves as he continued to smile running back to the kitchen.

We exchanged looks and burst into stifled laughter. Was it because we were not with our parents? Did we look that much older than we thought? Regardless, someone had taken an interest in our well being and, well, we were highly amused.  We were playfully suspicious even as we bantered back and forth with the wait staff. Along with another trip to the salad bar, we consumed four limeades, a diet coke, multiple glasses of water, and three plates of meat each. Even so, when the table waiter questioned our capacity to consume one of the house’s specially made deserts, my friend’s smile stretched broadly across her face.

Our choices ranged from molten chocolate cake to South American flan, but it was the house papaya cream that caught our attention. Blended with real papaya, this dessert claimed to be a digestive aid after a big meal. However, I wondered if the blackberry syrup used to top the dish didn’t negate those healthy effects. Regardless, the sweetness of the cream was smooth and delicate. Although it had the consistency of ice cream, it did not taste like ice cream. It tasted like blended papaya. It tasted real.

We outlasted no less than seventeen different tables, staying a little over two and a half hours. The other diners entered and exited as we continued to eat to our heart’s content. When our stomachs were as full as our wallets were empty, a more expectant doorman took the door handle from me. Our bodies meandered around the Plaza attempting to walk off the calories of the meal. But our minds still lingered on the restaurant. The freshness of the vegetables, the juiciness of the meat, and the purity of the papaya grew even more succulent with each and every mention of them. As the key ignited the engine like the food ignited our taste buds, I look forward to testing our culinary—and monetary—limits together. I know that our next adventure will shape our palates further, but for now, this experience ranks first for our stomachs, our memories, and our hearts.  

February always evokes feelings of nostalgia for my deepest loves: traveling and food. The half-frigid days usher me indoors to reminisce on my fondest food attachments. To rediscover my favorite cuisine, I must travel back to the origins of Western civilization—Greece. No other cuisine has given me more pleasure.

 As my Education First group drove around the Grecian mountains, my brain and stomach starved for authentic, local delicacies. What was this creamy Moussaka—a creamy cheese topped casserole baked with eggplant and ground meat—my fellow travelers raved about? How would authentic Greek establishments make my favorite gyro platter? Would I even be able to read all of the multiple preparations of lamb dishes I craved? After traveling four hours through needle tree forests and olive vineyards, all I had was questions and an empty stomach. Our group had barely made progress to the Meteoras (which I would learn were towering rocks miles from the Mediterranean imbedded with seashells and fossilized ocean life.) Without a single English translation, the signs provided little help as to how long it would be before my Greek food craving would be satiated. I began to feel more and more like a tourist. At least in Italy, my Spanish background gave me basic communication with its people and its signs.  In Greece, it was rare for someone to speak anything other than Greek. I was blinded and muted to semantic communication.  I had to rely on the only other language I knew could be understood: money.

Entering an off the road gas station, I was shocked to find a restaurant-café merged with the pre-packaged food section of a grocery store that had sprouted out of a bakery.  Still outfitted with the traditional soda and candies, this station seemed to have everything —only better. This couldn’t be a stop for most tourists; nothing was in English. Miles from any major tourist attraction, this bakery-restaurant-café-gas station-grocery store had to be a local venue. My stomach grumbled with excitement.

Having anticipated small bistro styled menus, I was overwhelmed with the choices. Knowing we’d be on the road for quite some time longer, my head turned the instant energy of carbs to keep me awake enough to take pictures out of the bus windows. Straddling the café and grocery section, the pastries were packaged in bulk. The typical red and white cardboard boxes I see American buffets use for to-go orders held everything from homemade cookies to roasted nuts. Although I couldn’t read them, the desserts were sitting in the café’s display glass with the same illegible names, so my fingers did not have to pry open every package.  I chose a fragile cookie that had to be eaten very carefully. Not the best choice for a mountainous bus ride, but a delicious one nonetheless. My triangle treats were hidden in the mountain of powder sugar that covered them. About the size of a medium scone, the outer texture of this cookie was crisp on the outside, yet light and airy on the inside. It carried a lemony zest that never left the mouth overpowered. Instead, it endlessly persuaded me to continue eating it. The price was almost too affordable for me to comprehend. With such luxury, I could see why Greece has been romanticized.

Leaving the station, I realized I had seen no gyros or pita wraps. Viewed as a quick, working-class food that was not fit to be served at a restaurant, gyros were only at fast food street venders. I would never taste how they were prepared in the country of their inception. Yet, every Greek establishment I visited prized both quality and quantity. Each entrée I was served was spectacular in taste and never left me hungry.

From the succulent, slow cooked roast lamb to the wood fire grilled chicken kabobs, all meat that was served was juicy and tender. Some nights I felt the dinner portions was secretly supposed to be shared. They just didn’t tell me, because they wanted to make more money out of me.  Every plate became a rich food experience. Even the cheese was indulgent, despite never being set on fire at my table. The food needed to be enjoyed over long periods of time. The quality forced me to savor; the quantity kept me at a table for hours. Of the 6 days I spent in Greece, I think most of it was sitting down with my favorite dish of all time—lamb.


Always slightly seasoned regardless of cooking technique, the lamb—as I came to find out—was always the most succulent dish on the menu. Smoked and served on the bone; slow roasted and served on a platter; basted in its own juices and served as cooked, pure Grecian lamb honestly needed no accompaniment. It came without sauce, butter, or additional condiments. Paired alongside with lightly salted and olive oil roasted vegetables, the lamb didn’t need thick, creamy sauce to give it taste. I found it stayed tastefully unique throughout all cooking methods. It was simply marvelous. It was simply delicious.  It was simply lamb.  My only regret is not having eaten enough of it.  

My coffee mug leans precariously on a fringe pillow. It holds the last caffeine of the day. To prolong its effects, I have been diluting it with decaf from a stoneware mug. While I cautiously hold one mug over the other, attempting to prevent the liquid from frothing over onto my cut-up poetry, my hostess calmly sips her single-brewed beverage. If only she had my dedication—or perhaps addiction—to ensure I consumed an adequate amount of caffeine in every sip. It is an opportune moment for the blonde-bellied feline. Stretching her paws across my artwork, she quickly darts away before I can reprimand her. She settles into the cushion of an earth-colored Victorian chair, warming in the sliver of sunlight peaking in from the drapes.  She is not the first cat to claim this chair as her own.

Once inside a New England porch, this piece of furniture was a mere stepping stool to the windowsill. Being the same width and twice the cat’s length, the windowsill became the hunting ground of the former cat. She would glide onto the wide, white sill and rub her ivory fur against the warm summer glass. In the same house, my hostess was sorting through old books. A classic, full-bodied blend by her side, the coffee filled a large mug to last her through her morning project. The novels comprised half of her original collection. The other half let go in lost romantic inclinations.  Yet, this chapter in her life would give her the happiest of stories—in print and in memories—that would overfill her walls with faces and her rooms with literature. 

Today, the books have managed to stack themselves in between half-knitted scarves and yet to be hung photography on the floor. They are used as pedestals for the Victorian styled porcelain dolls on the shelves. On the ground, they become the dividers of various projects. Their pages permeated by the smell of multiple readings and coffee grounds. Although a long russet couch hides the majority of the congested bookshelves, it is not spared of clutter. Yarn—entwined with even more colorful ribbon—winds around the cushions, armrests, and mountain of pillows. Multiple knitting needles imbedded into the couch’s pores. Each half-done scarf reminiscent of multiple conversations left purposefully unfinished.

As the Christmas holidays approach, desert recipes promise to be exchanged to avoid the traditional fruit and nut pies, cakes, and cookies. An Iowan woman brushes past the red velvet curtain carrying two steaming mugs. The coffee tastes like Christmas, cinnamon spice mixed with the grounds. Yet, two hours and four cups of the cinnamon coffee later, a trade has yet to be made. At the post New Year’s gathering, another visitor gasps astonished at the pile of Talbot’s bags. The hostess gleams triumphantly at her seventy to eighty percent markdown. Although most items are to be sorted, bartered, and gifted away, the promise of travel made parting with each item painless. The various clothing and accessories assure her visits to past houseguests. Only this time, conversation coffee will be in their own houses with their own personal brews.

One lady’s grandiose exterior slowly gives way to the earthy tones below.  Another remains mild-mannered, despite their robust, dark infusion. Subtle sweet undertones compliment the blonder texture, despite being brewed with extra grounds to give it a richer taste, of a lady with an advanced mind. Together, they create a balanced, dynamic blend. Each separate texture enhances the various roasts. Their scents and tastes mingle into one solid companionship.  

Just as each roast comes with a specific place of origin, so do their partakers, although neither one of them truly claims a specific providence as their homeland. Instead, they mark multiple territories for influencing their creations. From the wintry winds of Nebraska to the mid-Atlantic beaches of Maryland or from the heat of Texas to the mountains of the Ozarks, each time the coffee is brewed it always leads to new stories and newer inspirations. Coffee is just an excuse to get together, but the women who share its company don't need an excuse. They simply enjoy their conversations with coffee. Or rather, they enjoy their coffee with their conversations.

 Conversations perpetually unfinished—meant to be left as unsorted photographs, half-knitted scarves, and cut ups of fashion magazines. They are left amongst the piles of clutter on the living room floor or littering the pieces of furniture. Guests walk away with various knick-knacks embedded with stories and inspiration. In turn, they leave tokens of appreciation for the hostess to remember them by. 

 As the daylight wanes from the South window, the cat moves closer to the brick fireplace. Soon, the chair is covered in pieces of fabric and photographs—caught again in the cycle of constant reorganization as life adds more faces and features to the innumerable amount already there. There it will wait until the next escapade of a dynamic duo comprised of a University writing student and a former design instructor.  

As I step past the brick-floored foyer and into the cold winter air, another pot of coffee begins to slowly drip in the kitchen behind me. For me, the best coffees are not always labeled Organic, Fair Trade, or Starbucks. Most often, they are shared in local coffee shops or sprawled amongst craft glue and cutouts on the floor. Coffee was meant to be shared regardless of roast. Even as I write this from five hundred miles North, I know upon my return there will be fresh pots of a coffee and conversations just waiting to continue where they were left hanging.

I walked through the brisk air, pressing my hood to my head.  My friends followed me out of my apartment all the way past Market St. They were over-jubilant at the thought of parsley, basil, and potatoes. Or perhaps, they want egg rolls and cheese; but their thoughts were too cluttered for my taste. Their chatter became white noise humming in my mind.  I just want pancakes.

When I first stumbled upon the local griddle gods’ pancakes, it was out of blind curiosity.  Farmer’s markets provide fresh produce and handmade products cheaper and greener than any supplied in the local grocery store. Before discovering my true love, I shopped for the in-season vegetables and fruits. Already full of healthy granola, egg, or yogurt, I let the already warmed earth greet me around nine or ten. I was not—and remain not—an early riser.

Caught red handed by the pedestrian’s roadblock, the blinking crosswalk light only impeded my progress. It was too frosty for September, and I didn’t want to wait any longer. Then again seven-sixteen a.m. may have been too early to gauge the weather. The smell of autumn melded with the distant aroma of roasted meat and free trade coffee. Either of which served me no purpose. I clutched my 16oz thermos of my own brewed coffee— Starbucks, if you must know, because yes, I am a woman who needs a legitimate cup of corporation for breakfast. The commercialism offsets the home-created decadence of my succulent, delicious— I interrupted my own thoughts, amazed at my own drive.  I darted diagonally through the street regardless.  Past mornings have taught me that I won’t get caught.   Hopefully, this morning wouldn’t be an exception.

I could see my breath.  Making my own smoke stacks made the bitter cold seem more acceptable. I turned towards the entrance, littered with orange traffic cones, like a never finished construction site in high-traffic July.  This scene always marked the boundary between commercial Iowa City downtown and local farmer’s goods and services. The stand—camouflaged under an orange-blue tarp—only differentiated by the portable grill and a chalkboard sign marked with two items—omelettes and pancakes. 

My friends separated into their own corners of the market. It only took five minutes before I sat down in mine, situated on one end of a plastic picnic table with an elderly couple, a dog, and a pancake.  

I attempted to nibble around the center. Redefinition in every bite, I begin to understand why the English decided to call such a decadent pastry pancake. Pan in almost every other language denotes unaltered bread. Yet for England, bread was not sweet enough for morning. The moistened honeyed pastry called cake must combine and create the sensation known as a pancake. 

Taste overcame my desire to savor. Was it the home-created recipe? The early-morning wake up? The sheer complete and utter joy of knowing I was eating pancakes? Regardless, my mouth’s failure equaled my stomach’s immediate success. My etymology meant nothing to the serotonin flooding my system. I devoured every little secret lemon bit that offset the oncoming autumnal season. 

From September until early November, I attended to this weekly ritual with the utmost care. Pancakes became my relief, edged into a staple of my budget. My grocery list consisted of fruit, eggs, and pancakes. This diet got me through midterm exams, science fiction theory papers, and mind-numbing Japanese dictation exercises. Pancakes had brought our shaking hands and smiling faces together. Unfortunately, the farmer’s market cannot withstand the increasingly frigid Iowan latitude. The winter months will pull us apart, but not for long. In spring, the season will succumb to dewy frost. The pancake princes will once again return to downtown Iowa City.  My persistent patronage will begin again, continuing our weekly routine. Our hearts filled with friendships. Our stomachs swelled from the perfection known as pancakes.

The restaurant was nestled in an offshoot side street, crowded beside two other cafés, a bistro and a bustling pasta parlor.  Though normally I would head for the traditional sandwich and soup, the 4-hour excursion into the hills of Tuscany left my belly aching for a more substantial meal. The other cafés had a cover charge. While common for most Italian restaurants, cover charges are rarely found outside major US cities. Others in my group were already sweating in the hot Italian heat. eating cold turkey and provolone. I didn’t come to Italy to pay £10 for a table or bake in the weather with a typical deli lunch. I came to explore, to experience, and to eat. I was not about to eat real Italian food out of a take away box. I lead my friend and her mother towards the restaurant. Even after four years as classmates, we knew nothing of one another outside of high school band. The tour director had given us two hours to eat.  That was more than enough time to relax, finally get to know one another, and get a quick view of the city.

The restaurant was a humble establishment, with a simple awning and an old wooden door. The maître d’ greeted us with open arms and freshly baked bread. Although this venue was the only restaurant without a spewing crowd of tourists, I was afraid I had chosen a “Westernized” traditionally Italian restaurant. I perused the room, skeptic. Red-checkered décor familiar to me only from my imagination’s eye of American ranch-styled houses and 1950s picnics in the park. Plants hung from the ceiling, lined in the entrance as a divider between cocktail and family. I glanced at the other diners. The patrons beside us spoke such rapid Italian that even with my knowledge of Spanish, I couldn’t understand a fraction of their conversation. The closest I came was sì, signore! On a corner television, a popular Japanese cartoon was playing for the cocktail seating area. There were no belting operatic Italian love songs. The patron’s voices were the only soundtrack. Multiple waiters flurried from one table to the next. Each table had at least two waiters, one to entertain and one to serve the food. This ambience was a far more Tuscan than the Olive Gardens of America.

Handing us overtly thick menus, the waiter asked for drink orders. I was warned beforehand. Water was a carbonated mixture of burps and bubbles. £3 per carafe of water for the table was a minimal cost. The first was on me. 

Cuando en Italia, come como los italianos. 

Foreign tourists in America must feel so isolated. Thumbing through the menu’s multiple pages, I soon found out why it was three-times too large. The menu had been translated into three different languages—Italiano, Español, and English.  Flipping back and forth became a game, how much Spanish could I read?.  Where did Italian and Spanish intersect with each other?With English? Frutti de mare, mariscos, seafood. American menus, as I have seen them, never go this far—even in the bigger tourist cities.  Though I loved playing with the menu, I was grateful for the English after my fourth day in Italy.Compensi la deriva il linguini con melanzana, cipolle di inverno del ~ became critique despiadadamente el linguini con la berenjena, scallions, del ~ became comprised of linguini with crab, eggplant, scallions, and insert-untranslateable-sauce-here.  Questioning what exactly is farro and what does that mean for my spaghetti? Asking is that a type of fish or a type of vegetable? Perplexed but excited, we finally placed our orders. We examined the foreign labels on what appeared to be olive oil and vinegar. We dipped each piece of bread into the olive oil and balsamic vinegar mixture We bantered with our waiter. My friend’s completely un-Italian appearance fascinated the waiter.

Your hair is the color of the first light of dawn,” he crooned. She picked at a strand precariously.  “You got it done, no? . . .  No?!” 

His eyes widened. His mouth hung slightly agape. Then he threw his head back in laughter. 

“No, no, no; I don’t believe you!” 

We couldn’t help but share his joy. Maybe he was laughing to cover up his mistake. Maybe we were laughing because we knew his reaction had been too genuine to be faked. In the end, we were laughing. It never occurred to us that the last fresh waters he brought us were on the house, and that it took our food over an hour to get to the table. Once we settled into our entrées, all other distractions became ambient white noise, humming behind the sheer pleasure felt by our taste buds.

My pasta’s tender crabmeat deepened the richness of the tomato sauce. Lightly touched with basil, oregano, perhaps even rosemary that flittered in and out as the dominant taste. The overall smoothness of the dish made me want to savor each bite. I put my fork down between mouthfuls. I drank a sip of water to clear my palate, eagerly anticipating the next quasi-new sensation. I still had mushroom morsels yet to be devoured. My former notions of Italian as simple noodles with tomatoes and cheese were shattered. There would never be enough time to delight in all the dishes—present and future. Even if I gorged myself completely, I would still crave more of the succulent textures and tastes. Even better. I smiled to myself, quickly savoring the last portions shoveled into my mouth. This changed only one thing. I would have to come back.

If I learned anything in Pisa, it would be this. Savor every morsel. Savor every meal. Not because it will never happen again, but because you never know when it will happen again. The food may not be as delectable. It may not even be on the menu or in season. Then you’ll have to try something else even better.  Next time, and I will make a next time, Pisa and Pasta will be given every minute they deserve, two and a half hours at least. 

A mid-20th century grinder hums to the rotating chamber oven. The bakers’ self-mixed flour litters the counter—rye, wheat, white, cinnamon, and lemon flour. If any passer-by wanted to walk outside the building around 2 in the morning, the scents of rising bread and pastries would entice them to camp out until the doors open to the public at 6. Most likely, such campers would be invited in and put to work.   The Czech Village Sykora Bakery employees know the meaning well.

Three years have passed since the five hundred-year flood submerged Sykora Bakery in 9 feet of water.  As an outsider touring the kitchens, the flood line was barely visible, but for the employees, it stood as a reminder of triumph. The unstained wood reminded me of remolding, not extensive reparations and endurance. It must have been unimaginable to the owners and staff at Sykora how they would restore their business. Yet, rebuilt and recovered, Sykora Bakery has done exactly that and they are set to expand even further. 

Located a couple of blocks from the Cedar River, Sykora Bakery represents how a community, and the right baked good, can prevail over tragedy. The Czech Village is one cultural community close to the University of Iowa. My reason for going was simpler than expanding my cultural horizons or trying new pastries.  My European Union course focused on the Czech Republic’s EU role. Our professor knew one of the National Czech and Slovak Museum and Library volunteers. She had lived in the Czech Village her whole life, and promised us the grand tour of the village’s main street and polka stage.  Although the village was charming, what captivated me was the quaintness of its Sykora Bakery.  

It was the return to the old I found so appealing. It wasn't modern with harsh angles and chrome fixtures. It reminded me of a Victorian parlor-1950s mashup.  It was classic, yet quaint.  The antique chairs, white tablecloths, and décor gave the overall casual atmosphere with a subtle hint of formality.  Warm and inviting, the café was decorated for both afternoon tea and a quick lunch stop— white awnings, a simple display on one side, and a deli counter on the other.  The pastries looked delicious. I just needed to sample some—or all—of them.  

From cinnamon rolls to strawberry coconut bars, from molasses cookies to apple or apricot Danishes, the dough was made from their generation-driven recipe (since 1903). Although a couple of mass-distribution cookies—chocolate chip and company—made their way into the display’s corners for those less adventurous, the majority of their pastries were traditional, fresh, and fantastic.

One pastry looked like caviar meshed between two iced hamburger buns. After inquiring, I was  set straight.  Known by its colloquial name, the poppy seed burger is just that—two iced, lemon-bread buns stuffed to the brim with a sweetened poppy seed filling. I had never eaten poppy seeds before and the pastry surprised me. The sugar coated seeds oozed down my chin and gushed down my throat - I had cut the treat into small portions rather than noshing directly into it. Though the pastry could have made me of fan of poppy seeds, there were just too many.  My eyes lingered on the area-renowned kolaches. 

Owners and managers John and Sue Rocarek know the legacy of the bakery. Before their acquisition of the bakery, the most famous patron of Sykora Bakery took a kolache to go after the 1995 dedication ceremony of the National Czech and Slovak Museum across the street. Who were they referring to? President Clinton. During their ownership in 2009, Iowa’s former governor Chet Culver was sure to grab a kolache or two, at their re-opening after the flood. Sykora’s kolaches are not something to miss out on.  

Kolaches looked deceptive, somewhere between a sweet bun and a Danish. With only bread and full-bodied fruit center, I expected them to taste saccharine sweet. Yet, the sugary dough had lemon, both tart and sweet. It created a succulent compliment to any filling I found myself sampling. I loved the naturally tart cherry, the mellow apricot, the distinct apple, or the gritty poppy-seed filled center all for $1.25. The tasted just as good after I had frozen them to share with a friend a week later. 

After my visit, I realized I wanted to tour other cultural-historical areas of Iowa.  When one goes to other countries, it’s expected to immerse the palate with foreign textures and flavors. But in rural Iowa? The notion was far from assumed. It’s great to know that cultural commodities are just a short drive away. The spectacular treats of Sykora Bakery are now embedded in my sensual memory, leaving this avid taster craving for more kolaches. 

Find them at 73 16th Ave. Southwest, Cedar Rapids, IA 522404 off of Exit 18 on HWY I-380 N.