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By Rose Martelli
Photograph by Katherine Bish

Halfway into my first empanada at Fritanga, I had it all figured out: Why American food is so lacking. The treats we don’t even know we’re missing. Why we all just can’t get along.

I had been awaiting my large to-go order, seated at the teensy bar. In fact, all of Fritanga is rather wee; it’s a one-room, storefront restaurant, open just under a year, very close to I-44 on South Jefferson (otherwise-stranded county dwellers!), serving Nicaraguan cuisine for lunch and dinner. It’s street food, really; as the menu explains, the word “fritanga” commonly describes the many walk-up, take-away operations found most anywhere in Nicaragua. Though Fritanga’s freshly painted walls are thoughtfully and artfully appointed, I would imagine that, size-wise, it is not much different from those snack shacks from which its name is derived.

Upon hearing my order would take at least 20 minutes, I quickly scanned the appetizer list to see if I could get a little munch-munch to nibble on while I waited. The first thing I noticed was what was not on the menu: chips and salsa. Yes, there is a difference between Nicaraguan and Mexican, or Nicaraguan and other Central American culinary staples and traditions. If you’ve been to a place like Los Catrachos on Cherokee, which serves Honduran food, you’re probably already savvy to the potential for differences among the different cuisines from the region. If you’ve ever had really good Mexican food, you’ll be pleased by what you’ll find at Fritanga.

I was told that the empanada (similar to a fried dumpling, stuffed with cheese and a vegetable like zucchini or a ground or shredded meat) would be six or seven minutes, because each one is prepared and fried to order. So I waited, and then I took a bite. It was smaller than the palm of my hand, and topped with a sprinkling of the house coleslaw. Yes, there are some similarities between Central American and plain-old-American, one of them the prevalence of coleslaw as a side dish; it comes with just about every dinner entrée at Fritanga, along with rice and beans and some version of plantains. More similarities: They do plantains like we do potatoes—every way possible. Fried into strips, fried into rounds, roasted and seasoned; the options go on and on.

Anyway, back to the empanada. It was absolutely delicious, its doughy encasement fried oh-so-lightly, to a perfect, golden crisp. I could tell from one bite that, indeed, it had not been occupying some steam tray, but, instead, fried just the right amount of time, right on time. It let out a little crisp-squish noise when I bit into it. The coleslaw garnish—no mayo, just very lightly marinated in white vinegar, with a little chopped carrots and red and green peppers—added a sprightly, almost verdant dimension to its flavor.

There was no ketchup, and no ranch dressing for dipping. Are you starting to see what I’m getting at?

I hurried home to my friends with three plastic shopping bags stuffed with carne asada, a whole, lightly fried tilapia and pupusas (homemade corn tortillas) stuffed with both pork and zucchini. I don’t even remember us bothering much with silverware—at least not for the fish. I only remember the glistening fingers of others attempting to snag a mouthful of its tender, juicy meat.

The nice staffer who assembled our food had included a foil packet full of lime wedges. I squeezed some onto the fish, some­thing I’d never done before. And I kissed tartar sauce goodbye.