Andina is certainly more up-market than my usual east-side haunts, but the 2005 world champion Chicago White Sox needed 19 innings to avoid getting swept by my 2004 world champion Boston Red Sox, so I got treated. I love winning bets.
Andina is packed on weekend evenings, and our 830 reservation landed us in the middle of the mayhem. A latin jazz trio was rocking the bar, working their way through the Real Book, Volume 1 (oh, how I know thee well). We were early, but we were nonetheless seated at a two top near the entrance to the dining room–Andina is split into two sections, the bar and the dining room, separated by a long hallway of sorts and what seemed to be the blind side of the kitchen.
The decor was largely what I expected: exposed beam ceiling, clay colored walls and darkwood accents, with a few Inca tchotkes around. Then again, the website did well to engender those expectations in me. We were seated at a table very near one of the hostess stands, so there was a fair amount of foot traffic and kitchen noise in addition to the babbling brook of a bar down the hall. It was quite loud–I actually caught myself raising my voice a little too far to counteract the room.
A busser dropped off the amuse bouche of sorts, a trio of spreads and some baguette. The baguette was nothing special, but the three sauces were quite interesting–the first was a puree of cilantro and jalapeno (damnit… we’re in jahh-lahh-pee-no country again) that we decided needed a little salt.
damn! No salt on the table.
the second was a mix of passionfruit and Aji, tart and piquant. I really liked that one. The third was a mixture of cotija, aji and something else–I didn’t try it, but the wonderful company really dug it.
Our server arrived, leaning in close to discuss specials. Everything offered was followed with a Spanish translation–her pronunciation was quite good, but she screwed up some genders, so I doubt she’s a native speaker. She delivered her speech leaning in on our table, insisting on deep, meaningful eye contact. She managed to get my cocktail order (a tortuga, in league with a book I read recently) on her way away from the table. There was something disconcerting about the intensity of the experience, and by experience I mean listening to the specials.
“Everytime she looks at me I think she’s going to kiss me” said my dining companion. I’m not going to lie, unexpected lesbian action between my date and my server wouldn’t have ruined my night, but the intensity our server had made me think she was trying to hypnotize us.
My cocktail was alright–a sort of gin-mojito with cucumber essence. It wasn’t a poorly made drink or anything like that, I just didn’t like it much.
note to self, don’t order drinks based on novels you didn’t like
The server returned and stared deeply into my soul to discover I wanted a cebiche and the asparagos peruanos, (Peruvian asparagus). My dining companion narrowly avoided a liplock when ordering the halibut.
The food was excellent in all ways, although my cebiche could have used some salt. I ordered a Cuzquena (tilde problems again! oh *snap*) later on, which is my favorite Peruvian brew. We had a great time, I think, but it all could be a telepathic mapping of a good time from our server… We were getting very sleepy on our way out……
