The Peculiar American

Ah Chihuahua

Jay called me the other day excited about a new Mexican place he'd discovered. This is not unusual, Jay is obsessed with Mexican food. I met Jay through his wife, Regina, an Italian girl from Las Vegas who used to work for me. The first few times I ever spent time with them Jay was always talking about Mexican food.

At first I thought it was his attempt to get me to like him. I'm from Mexico, I like Mexican food, ergo let's talk about Mexican food. But as much as I like tacos and quesadillas, Jay seeemed to really like talking about tacos and quesadillas, far beyond the point it ceased to be interesting to me. There were directions to the one place in Las Vegas that serves fresh agua de horchata (my favorite), a detailed explanation of the way to properly prepare taquitos, the latest episode of Rick Bayless' show, why the place on Montgomery isn't really that good, the secret behind great guacamole, and on and on and on.

Then I thought, perhaps he's aware how strange this obsession is and he's embracing the parody, talking about Mexican food a ridiculous amount of time because it is funny. But when Jay continued to talk about Mexican food beyond even the point something is so ridiculous it becomes funny it ocurred to me: this guy really does love Mexican food. And I'm apparently the only person he believes understands this about him.

To be fair, Jay will forever be in my debt. I think he understands this, that no matter culinary gem he is able to lay at my feet, for the rest of his life he will never be able to make up for the fact that I, having only been in Albuquerque a few months, introduced him to the greatest Mexican restaurant north of the border: TQM1. At this point I must apologize, Dear Reader, for using an acronym for this restaurant, but I have had the unfortunate experience that whenever I tell someone about TQM1 they become fanatical patrons of the establishment, which makes it damn near impossible to find a seat between the hours of 11 a.m. and 3 p.m. Jay told his cousin, one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the state, who told half the courthouse.

And seeing how TQM1 is my favorite restaurant in town, and I enjoy sitting down when I have a coctel de camaron and pastel de tres leches, I have decided I can no longer trust people with my secret. The last person I offered to take to TQM1, a cute blonde real estate agent who seemed eager to have lunch with me, refused to park at my office, siwtch cars and wear a blindfold the rest of the way to the restaurant. So we had Asian salads instead at Flying Star. Her loss.

Albuquerque is crawling with Mexican restaurants. Half of them we can discard immediately for really being "New" Mexican restaurants. New Mexican food is good, sometimes even great, but I can never help feeling that I am at a funeral or memorial service, honoring the memory of authentic Mexican food, singing it's praise, recalling beatiful moments we shared together and really wishing the bastard were still alive.

Of the remaining half, the vast majority are Americanized versions of Mexican food. Any establishment that uses cheddar cheese or asks if you want a "hard" taco or a "soft" taco is automatically disqualified. I you think eating Belgian waffles at the International House of Pancakes is a legitimate foray into foreign cusine then you would be quite satisfied with these establishments.

TQM1 is the real deal. For starters, the place is a dump. You would never think to stop there and eat. There are only six tables, half of which are really uncomortable to eat at because any time someone opens the door the glass pan is a just a few inches from your meal. The special of the day is handwritten (always misspelled) on a piece of notebook paper and taped to the wall. The waitresses bareley speak English, the cooks none at all.

They are all cousins, of course. You can buy calling cards to Mexico at the counter. And they have real Mexican Coke, smuggled in from across the border. What's the difference? Mexican Coca-Cola is made from sugar cane, not high fructose corn syrup. And it's made with Mexican water, which has more minerals than ultra-filtered American water. And it comes in a glass bottle. I love Mexican Coke. Anyone who grew up in Mexico does.

(True story: the Wall Street Journal recently had a story on the growing trade in smuggled Coke form Mexico (not cocaine, but Coca-Cola as immigrant establishments prefer to stock it and make their clientele happy. The Coca-Cola distributors in the Southwest are up in arms because while total sales of Coca-Cola are up in the area, they are not seeing any of the upside: it's all being smuggled in from Mexican bottlers).

But back to TQM1. The food is authentic, or as authentic as you can possibly get not being in Mexico. I have more than once considered dating one of the waitresses, a particularly uncomely lot, just for the positive associations she would bring. Looking at her would remind me of the tacos de barbacoa. I've thought about trying to buy the building next door and moving, home and office, there. It's not for sale. Jay himself eats there at least 3 times a week. I would as well, but the place closes at 7 and I usually eat dinner very late.

Recently, TQM1 rolled out new menus. The old menus looked like they had been typed out on an Olivetti at the height of the Watergate scandal. The new menus were slick affairs, professional printed, with photos and legible text, and laminated.

"This is not a good sign," I said over a plate of carne asada y arroz.
"No, it isn't." Jay agreed.
"This place is really going downhill."
"A real shame."

So pressure was mounting to find an alternative eatery, in the event TQM1 continued to go mainstream. So it is that Jay called me the other day.

"I found a Mexican place."
"Yeah?"
"I'm here now."
"How is it?"
"I don't want to be hasty, but it might be--"
"Don't say it," I cut him off.
"I was just going to say that--"
"I don't want to hear it."
"Really, it could be as good as TQM1."
"That's crazy."
"Not everything. No one can beat TQM1's camaron it's true. But as far as tacos,
this--"
"I'm going to hang up now."
'No, no, no. This time I'm serious. It might be as good. And they have al pastor."
"Al pastor?" If I am ever scheduled to be executed and am offered a final meal, it will be tacos al pastor. The fist thing I do when I land in Mexico City is eat al pastor.
"Yes!"
"If this is some kind of a joke I want you to know it's not funny."
"I'm eating one right now?"
"How is---Nevermind. I don't even want to allow myself to believe there could be decent al pastor in Albuquerque." Tacos al pastor are hard to find outside of central Mexico. I once spent the better part of an afternoon driving around Cd. Juarez looking for an al pastor joint and, failing that, looking for people who might know where there was a good al pastor joint. To no avail.
"There is."
"It would hurt too much if it turns out your wrong."
"Come now. I'll order some more."
"I've been hurt before, you know."
"Trust me."

What to say? Amazingly, Jay was right. The new place (and I will risk using its real name) Ah Chihuahua is quite good. The tacos al pastor are not as good as the ones in Mexico City (the secret is marinating the meat in the secret sauce overnight before roasting it on the spit and topping off the taco with a slice of pineapple to contrast the spicyness), but good enough to bring back pleasant memories. Hey, who said funerals couldn't be fun?

I was having trouble processing this new change to the culinary landscape. A veritable earthquake.

"I suppose this can be the after 7 place." I said, with the same melancholy tone you use when you've met someone new and realize you love the person you're with just a little bit less.
"Exactly!" Jay said excitedly, shoving the last of a taco in his mouth.
"It's not like we'll stop going to TQM1," I rationalized.
"It's like this. When I was in Vegas there was an Italian place I really liked and then I found a new one I loved. The key is that the first one was good at all the red tomato sauces and the second one was really good at the white creamy sauces."
"I see." Could I love more than one Mexican restaurant at the same time?
"Problem solved. You feel like red, you go to the first place. Feel like white, go to the second. Same deal here."
"You've given this a lot of thought."
"Of course."

Just then a fly landed on my cheek. I swatted it away.
'This place has ambiance."
"You like it?"
"Love it."
"There's seating inside. No one sits there, unless it's raining."
"It's better out here." And it was. We were standing up, on the side of the road, the dust and exhaust mixing in with the cilantro and lime and onion and salsa we put on the tacos.
"More legitimate."
Jay laughed.
I pointed to the TV sitting on a crate in the corner, an old black & white box that had duct tape where the channel know used to be. "All that's missing is the dog that licks your leg as you try to eat and old coke bottles that are salt shakers."

It's one of the cardinal rules of street food. The more run-down the establishment, the better the food. The best tacos are always had standing up. There is a taqueria near my old house in Mexico City that always has a long line of people standing on the sidewalk eating. It's some of the best tacos I've had. They had so much business they bought an old Volkswagen van and keep it permanently parked in front of the al pastor stand. If you want a more leisurely dining experience you wait for one of the patrons to finish eating and take his seat in the VW van and enjoy your meal sitting down.

I asked the cook making the tacos if the owner was present. He went and got him. Jay and I both thanked him profusely and complimented him on his restaurant. I asked him where he was from.
"Veracruz," he said.
"Veracruz? Why didn't you call the restaurant Mi Lindo Veracruz?"
"My wife is from Chihuahua."
"Ah." The three of us nodded and laughed.
"Maybe the next franchise will be called Mi Lindo Veracruz I said.

"So how did you find this place?"
"I was with Regina and we wanted to eat at TQM1 and we got there after 7."
I nodded empathetically.
"So I decided to just drive, listen to my inner Mexican." This is funny. Jay is 1/8th Mexican, somewhere in the family tree there is a Mexican, though he's not sure where. You would never know it though, Jay has one of those silly American names like Jones and doesn't like the least bit like a member of La Raza. For that matter, neither do I.
"And what did your inner Mexican say?"
"I drove and drove and drove. For about 45 minutes. And then..."
"Yes?"
Jay stepped outside. I followed. He pointed to the sign. "Ah Chihuahua."
"The inner Mexican."
"The inner Mexican." He smiled.