On the road

There are few things that make me happy the way a beautiful cup of cappuccino makes me happy, and this one is particularly sweet: the barista suggested I get a traditional Italian style, which is two shots of espresso (since this is really what I’m after) mellowed by just a little milk (instead of being overpowered by it – this seems like such an oxymoron, for milk to overpower coffee, such a light, weak sort of milk-toast thing trumping a vigorous, put-hair-on-your-chest, thick and dark thing. Not that I don’t like milk. I just like a little of it). Plus I put raw sugar in it; it’s always a bonus when I see those little brown packets on the cream and sugar table.

The barista tells me this sort of cappuccino is controversial in the “coffee world,” and at this shop, tazza mia, at 441 Vine, they put even more espresso than usual into the cup. It’s really a wet macchiato – macchiato being the espresso with foam. For me, it’s the perfect cross between cappuccino (too much milk) and macchiato (too much espresso). They also have a great chipotle turkey bacon sandwich on wheat berry bread, and a case of sweets, including a gooey chocolate chip number I might have to get before I leave.

All this is accompanied by a phenomenal soundtrack, including "Rollin’ in my Sweet Baby’s Arms" with Doc Watson-like amazing guitar picking leading the way, and someone wailing on the harmonica.

I am in Cincinnati, where everyone has been so friendly you’d think I was in the south. Which I kind of am, I guess, snuggled right up next to Kentucky. Witness the friendly barista who also promised me a free shot if I could guess the musician correctly. Alas, it is not Doc Watson, but I’d already had the two shots in my Italian-style cappuccino so I think it’s just as well. (It was the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. I should have known!)

Last night I had dinner at a place called Local 127, and at one point I had three attractive young men waiting on me. At once. I love dining alone.

The chef came and asked how everything was. I told him the celeriac soup was phenomenal. Which it was, with this foamy cheese dolloped on top as if it were cream, but so tangy and flavorful you couldn’t mistake it for anything but good quality (local) cheese when you took a bite. There was also smoked trout, which was a surprise: I’d expected a cooked-smoked sort of thing, which I’d had before, but it came out like smoked salmon, dressed with a ginger cream and pickled red onions to cut the unctuously smooth and mellow flavor of the fish with some zing. Pop! Yum. I also liked the little crisped rice bits scattered around for some crunch. The Caesar salad was lovely as well—romaine like you never get at the store (not even the co-op), tender and crunchy all at once, with just the right amount of anchovy taste in the dressing and the most beautiful poached egg to top it all, with a brilliant orange yolk. As this restaurant specializes in local food, it must have been from a free-range, locally raised chicken.

My one complaint: the salad plate was cold. Is this a thing? I think a salad plate should be room temp, so I don’t wonder whether the salad was prepared in advance (I want my salad prepared now, not five hours ago, or even two). I would also have done the egg warm, rather than cold (refrigerating a poached egg? Weird) so you’d get the runny goodness of warm egg contrasting with the refreshing crunch of the lettuce.

But overall it was a lovely dining experience, and they even had one of my favorite wines – one I buy at the liquor store, Primitivo. Nothing super special, just a reliable red.

I am here on business, and it is really good business, writing about community schools. That deserves its own posting, but briefly: The AFT supports schools with “wrap around” services, and I am writing about them for its publications. In these places, low-income, disadvantaged children in low-performing schools have all sorts of services available to them: vision testing, mental health services, college counseling, free breakfast, lunch and dinner, homework help. But most important, they have a community of adults who are absolutely committed to raising the whole child. People who understand that Johnny is sleeping through class because he is homeless, grabbing what sleep he can from an auntie’s couch, a friend’s floor, the back of a car, and coming to school worried and exhausted. People who notice when Mary’s clothes are dirty and wrinkled, and can get her a fresh set and wash her up in the health room, then let her talk to a trusted adult about the single parent who is checked out and neglecting her children.

I am lucky to write about things that matter.

And I am lucky to travel alone.

I think of my young daughter, traveling alone in Europe, and I think, yes. She will encounter friendly baristas, and magical street performers, and fellow travelers so interesting they will talk late into the night. And then my heart aches, in a good way, as I think of her as the little waif of a girl I raised, sitting alone, maybe in her own find of a coffee shop, with the world swirling around her in such a tantalizing way and I can’t believe that she is so grown.

Have fun, Clara. I am. Right here in Cincinnati.