The Boundary House

I traveled for ranch.

The ranch on its own is mild. Not a lot of smell, not a lot of flavor. Consistency runs on the thinner side.

But then there are the candied pecans. They threw off my senses in the best possible way. A fun addition to the salad that I wasn’t mad about at all: the whole thing came together in a way the ranch couldn’t quite pull off solo.

The ranch was flirting with Runner-Up, toeing that line hard. The candied pecans did the heavy lifting and pushed it over. I’m okay with that. I’d confidently order it again.

A quick word on the food, because it earned it:

The filet was some of the best food of the whole trip. I am still thinking about it. Days later. Possibly forever.

Honorable mention:

I asked the bartender if he could make a French 75. He responded with the level of confidence that should have been a warning sign. Instead, I trusted him.

What arrived was a martini glass with foam on top from the pineapple juice he’d apparently included, a cherry at the bottom, and a faint hint of amaretto.

That had me doing a side eye. Let’s call that the Faux 75.