A Restaurant Called Abasto

The facade is plain white and the blue letters simple. Abasto. As in, going to the store. We step in the restaurant and the first thing we’re hit with is the sight of some crumble-topped muffins which are just gorgeous.  I hadn’t actually been hungry before that moment but quickly got hungry.

Crumble wr

Since we were with a large group, we were ushered back to the despensa (which means the pantry).  This back room was dominated by a large wood table that seats about 14 people, with a wall stocked full of wines behind it. Hanging on the walls were dried garlic, loufas and flowers. There was an area to buy things, like olives and their oil, quinoa, corn meal and other organic products.

Inside Abasto wr

Then we started searching the menu. I remember some talk about some eggs in olive oil and oregano, but got lost in one word…pancakes. The unfortunate thing is that I didn’t ask what kind of pancakes they were offering. American pancakes?  South American pancakes? The South American ones I’ve had have all too often been rubbery, served in a leisurely manner so they always arrive cold, and no one else seems to care that the butter won’t melt on those hard slabs of wheat flour.

Anyway, without asking, without preparing myself, I ordered those pancakes.

In the meantime, the scones arrived. Oh, the scones. Made with delicious cream. Tender. Studded with berries. Served with a little pot of house-made berry jam and some very tempting butter. Then the bread basket arrived, thick slices of house-made bread, full of healthy grains, with lots of butter and fresh-made berry jam for the top.

scones wr

Bread basket wr

Then the eggs arrived. Not mine, since I had opted for the pancakes in all my American greediness, but my friends’ eggs arrived. Two little eggs nestled in their own little frying pan, with some cream and spinach. The deep orange yolks stared up at me. Wow. How did they get that orange? A taste, offered by a generous friend, was surprising. What flavorful eggs. Apparently that’s what happens when chickens are happy, they produce good eggs. At least, that’s what the sign on the wall led me to believe. And they cost more, too. Another friend had ordered an arepa, a thin toasty looking arepa with lots of grated cheese on top.

Then my plate arrived. Three pancakes, some more of the berry jam, and a sliced banana off to the side, served on a large white plate.

Three pancakes. I stared at them. Were those pancakes? Really? How did the shape get so perfect? They looked suspiciously like arepas. They were perfectly round, rather thick, and very browned, the kind of browned that only comes from adding lots of butter. I moved one with my fork. The butter was melting on top of them, so the temperature was right. Although it wouldn’t be for long on this cool Bogota morning.

Ok, so back to the look of the pancake, and the real question. Was it really an arepa? As I prodded with my fork, my curiosity was satisfied; it was a pancake. Wheat flour. I spread some jam on it (no syrup available) and cut into it. Good texture, though a little too firm for me. Like a stressed out pancake, not soft enough.

A bite.

Wow. What kind of pancake was that? Pancake meets organic and healthy. Not very sweet, but with good flavor. And what was that white layer inside? A closer look revealed a thin layer of ricotta cheese within the pancake, as if enclosed in it. How in the world did they get that in there? Delicious.

Honey was also served with it, a thick, almost solid honey that I had last tried years ago in the mountains of Venezuela. A delicious topping to the pancakes, though perhaps a little insipid. With a little berry jam, it was perfect.

Pancakes wr

An American pancake? By no means. Excellent? Definitively.

After the meal I got a chance to look around the restaurant, which has a marketplace feel to it. Comfortable, busy on a Sunday morning, with an emphasis on getting together with loved ones for a cheery meal.

I received the most unusual surprise when I opened the bathroom door. My surprise wasn’t so much in the clean bathroom (an important detail) but the smell.  A fresh smell of flowers…in the latrine. Hmmm. Unusual indeed. I looked right and left, saw the usual mirror, soap dispenser, sink…where was that smell coming from…

The rafters. I looked up, and imagine that, tied from the wood rafters were bunches of fresh and dried flowers, giving a feeling of an upside down garden within the bathroom.

Flowers from the rafters wr

Overall, visiting Abasto was an enriching experience. It wasn’t just some decent food, but a feeling that more than my stomach had been fed. It was a whole-person experience, satisfying my taste buds, my health considerations, and my love of all things natural.

Abasto, Carrera 6 #119b-52, Usaquen, Bogota

0 thoughts on “A Restaurant Called Abasto”

  1. Nice! I understand that feeling of unreasonable skepticism entirely. Real western breakfasts are so hard to come by in Japan, when I found a pancake/pie place in Kyoto that had REAL pancakes, whose owner had studied in New England, I made it my first priority to visit any time I’m in that city. Temples? Meh. Pancakes? Definitely. Nice post! 🙂

    1. It’s amazing the things we crave when we move to another country. My Colombian husband doesn’t understand my pancake passion…definitely an American obsession. How long were you in Kyoto?

  2. oooh you made my tummy growl but also cry cause I can’t have wheat 🙁 But Abasto looks like “my kind” of place nevertheless.Your post inspired me to go look fondly upon my homemade pickles (that pantry shot made me think of my pickles) and I think I’m going to soften some butter for gluten-free cupcakes…..
    enjoy Bogota!

    1. My husband’s not a pancake person, but he thought these were great. Of course, I didn’t let him try much of them. I’m very greedy when it comes to pancakes!

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