Instead, I decided to focus on a glimmer of joy brought to me by an unexpected source.
I'm still not sure how the idea popped into my head. Maybe it was my guardian angel. Or perhaps I'm just wired weirdly. Anyhow, I remembered a friend at work talking about the Nipa Hut, his family's restaurant in Parma Heights, and I decided Saturday was the day to try it out.
Checking out the website first, I perused the menu. Not that it helped me much. I was not acquainted at all with Filipino cuisine. I didn't know my dinguan from my fried bangus. (Honestly, I still don't, but I digress.)
I found the location with little trouble. The entrance was problematic. I tried the door. It was locked. Inside, I could see patrons eating, but I had no idea how to get in. Obviously, there was another entrance. I poked my head into the neighboring barber shop.
"You want the restaurant?" he asked, barely looking up. Without waiting for an answer, he pointed to the Asian Market next door, which had escaped my notice earlier. I walked down the first aisle and realized that the restaurant was connected at the back.
I approached the man taking orders, who HAD to be Jeff's dad. I introduced myself and explained that I worked with Jeff and that he was the one who told me about the Nipa Hut. The gentleman confirmed he was, in fact, the father of my co-worker. At which point he came out from behind the counter and stated, "You're having the buffet."
He asked me what kind of food I liked, and I told him I was feeling adventurous and wanted to try a little of everything. I got a tour of every dish, what it was called and its ingredients. There had to have been at least 20 different dishes, each with an exotic name I immediately forgot. He came to one entree and said, "Don't eat that." (Later, when I described it to Jeff, he said it was probably the dish with cow's blood in it that he hated as a kid.) At the end of the buffet were what looked like misshapen potato chips but were actually dried pieces of fish. My host looked at me dubiously. I shrugged and decided I would try them, too.
I thanked Mr. I. for his gracious hospitality and told him how much I enjoyed working with his son. Then I grabbed a plate and began to take a little of everything (except the brown stuff). A server came to my table with a bottle of water and utensils, and I was ready to go.
It was a feast. My mouth hasn't been that happy in forever. I sipped water in between each dish to cleanse my palate. Surreptitiously, I looked around the room to see if anyone else was having a religious experience. They seemed to be enjoying their food, but were already well-acquainted with the cuisine.
Once or twice I may have hit something that made my eyebrows twitch. But, for the majority of the time I was smitten. I could not tell you everything that I ate, only that it was truly amazing.
And yes, I did try the dried fish. The jury is still out. I think it's an acquired taste, but do I want to acquire it?
We'll see.
In the meantime, I cleaned my plate, left a tip, and prepared to make my departure. My host was coming out of the kitchen with a second set of silverware. I assured him I couldn't eat another thing, but what I did eat was delicious.
He told me he was glad I'd decided to be adventurous and extracted a promise from me to return. Reluctantly, I departed.
It's a real joy to me when I find a little local joint like this that has wonderful food and good folks in the kitchen.
Thanks, Mr. I.
I'll be back!
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