To paraphrase deceased singer Scott McKenzie and his one-hit wonder, if you’re going to 1144 NW 63rd, be sure to wear flowers in your hair.
After a somewhat exhausting search for somewhat healthier places to enjoy this past Sunday—all of which were closed, mind you—my friend suggested Flower Child, one of Nichol Hills’ newest additions she had ordered from a few times in the past. At a loss for better suggestions, I whole-heartedly agreed and off we cruised to the vaunted green spot.
With an outside that resembled a particularly health-conscious fast-food eatery and a sunlit inside that loudly screamed they’re a particularly health-conscious fast-food eatery, as we walked up to the front to order our eats, a tragically skinny lad came out from the back carrying a large white plate with a single wheat-based muffin on top. That scene will always sum up my mental image of the place.
Our own plates gratefully ordered, we found a nice table towards the back to relax and enjoy each other’s company, mostly glad that this restaurant was a nice, soothing place to edibly relax after a moderately irritating search for sustenance. As the food was brought to our table, however, the real test (fest?) was about to begin.
Despite being a middle-aged man—or, I guess, elderly, considering my failed life-path—I had never had the youthful snack of Crushed Avocado Toast ($7.50). While a welcomed wave to mean-spirited jabs came to mind before I tried it, as I deeply sunk my useless teeth in there, I have to admit that the mixture of fresh avocados, white cheddar and—surprise, surprise—a soft egg was a delightfully tasty appetizer, undoing all those terrible snipes.
With the name an obvious take on “global”—at least I think so—the Glow Bowl ($9.95) was my friend’s lunch selection. Delivered in, what else, a large bowl, the illuminating concoction featured spicy sweet potato noodles and various outré vegetables like bok choy and shitake mushrooms, as well as jalapenos, zucchini, and onions, drowned in coconut milk and sunflower butter.
As she dove head-first into the tantalizingly vegan bowl—that tasted most delicious, I will whole-heartedly admit—I had my own engagement with the least-conforming to society’s rules item on the menu, the Rebel ($12.95), a Hell-on-wheels wrap that featured charred onions, port salut cheese, arugula, horseradish yogurt and, as a big middle finger to all they’ve built and strove for over the years, large chunks of grilled fuckin’ steak.
Bits of meat and its accompanied juices fell from the sturdy-seeming wrap with each well-meaning nosh and nibble, the acrid taste of the vegetables nearly beating my tenderly sliced scads of meat into near submission, a swell they should.
It was a battle of tastes I never expected to be held at a place called Flower Child, but maybe I was the misbegotten youth of Gaia, the hippie mother of the Earth, her breast no longer offered to me for sustenance, instead this meaty wrap shoved in my face as a most welcome alternative. Thanks, mom. Cómpralo ya!
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