Photo by Clara Wang
Opened on August 11, the airy, bright space offered by Trópico’s new Lumber Exchange location has plenty of street-facing window perches for Hennepin people-watching and comfy family-sized booths for groups to share picadas (carnivore party platters). I started with the palm-sized beef and egg empanadas ($7.99), which are best dipped in chimichurri and finished with a dash of ají picante, and ordered a bandeja paisa ($24.99), the classic Colombian triple-protein, quadruple-carb breakfast stacked with crispy pork belly, chorizo, ground beef, rice, fried plantains, mini-arepas, rice, and a fried egg on top. I washed it down with a michelada de frutos amarillos ($7.00 for a festively garnished passionfruit juice soda).
Street food aficionados and those with picky children shouldn’t miss the salchipapas or hot dogs, loaded Colombian style with everything but the kitchen sink. After the new Trópico gets its liquor license next week, I’m sure it will be a popular happy hour hangout.
Photo by Clara Wang
Portions and prices are decent for being smack in the middle of the Warehouse district, and everything is extremely fresh and homemade—I’ve lived in Colombia for more than a year cumulatively and can confirm it tastes like someone’s abuela frying up breakfast. The arroz con pollo ($16.99, comes with fries) uses chicken breast (which isn’t as flavorful as chicken leg), and the ground beef and beans lacked salt, but the generous slab of chicharrón makes up for everything. Perfectly cooked, crispy, and crackling, it melts like butter on the tongue.
The Oblea tradicionál was one of the best I’ve had, period. Generous dollops of cold, fresh, real whipped cream balance out rich, silky arequipe (Colombian caramel sauce) and a light sprinkling of cheese. After a breakfast originally designed to last workers all day in the fields, I was stuffed when I got the oblea para llevar, but letting an oblea get soggy is a punishable offense. By the time I walked to my car on S. 2nd I was halfway through the oblea. Rolling down the car windows to air out the hot August sun, I polished off the rest, sticky gooey goodness oozing out between paper-thin wafers like Jason Momoa’s pecs in his Aquaman costume. As I scraped every last bit of cream off the packet with my fingers, thoroughly immersed in licking them clean, I looked up. Staring at me, slightly horrified, were a pair of spandex-clad ladies strolling down the street. It’s okay, I wanted to tell them. Just three blocks away you can split an oblea of your own for $7.99 with forks and knives, dainty-like. It just tastes better when you make a mess.
