Last week, Ms. Muse and I found ourselves eating on the cheap. We stopped by Tacos Ensenada, her local taco shop and for less than 20 bucks had enough food in our possession to feed a small family of 8.
We hardly talked through dinner and mostly communicated with an assortment of mmmm's and more mmmm's.
The food was good.
It wasn't great.
And that brings me to my observation about Mexican food, which I will divulge at the risk of incurring some politically correct raised eyebrows.
I've lived in Southern California for more than 40 years. Holy shit, I'm old. And have almost lost my status as an ex New Yorker. Although I still don't say "dude" or burn sage or surf Goofy Foot.
Quick aside, my youngest daughter recently moved to the Big Apple to experience life outside of LA. And to see if she can meet a nice Jewish boy and make me some grandbabies. Maybe that's my hope and not part of her plan.
In short, I've eaten a great deal of Mexican food. A lot less lately since I have a 31 inch waist and a slew of pants I aim to never replace.
In all that time, I've had bad Mexican food (I'm looking at you Taco Bell), and good Mexican food, but again, never great.
Maybe it's the nature of the beast. Call me pedestrian but Mexican food is basically cheese, beans, rice, meat and tortillas, configured a thousand different ways until Domingo.
Don't get me wrong, I've eaten at the best Mexican restaurants in the city, including my favorite, Paco's, famous for its appearance in the Tom Cruise movie, Jerry Macguire.
I love Paco's. I love the homemade tortillas, the meaty (sometimes chewy) carne asada, the generously poured margaritas, and the always-changing though never-changing festive decorations. And while I always leave Paco's with a smile on my face and a Hindenburg's worth of gas in my belly, I never come away thinking, "Damn, that was great."
The funny thing is, nor do I want to.
I've been to Mexico as well as Spain, and sampled gourmet eateries. Never worked for me. In the way I don't ever want to go to a gourmet delicatessen. It felt too fancified. And actually detracted from the experience.
I don't want my salsa painted on a dish as chefs like to do for some unknown reason. I don't want a dab of guacamole, I want a trowel full of it. And spare me the amus-bouche. Just plunk a plastic bowl of warm salty chips and some pickled carrots and onions in front of me and I'll leave a more than generous 20% tip. Throw in some intestine-scorching habaneros and I'll make it 22%.
For me, the best Mexican food is served from a cart. On the street. By a guy with a thick mustache (like mine) who assumes because of my limited Spanish speaking abilities that I am from Guatemala and not Jerome Avenue in the Bronx.
That's the beauty of Mexican food. It's authentic and simple people food.
It could be the one thing in life where good enough is good enough.
I was listening to a podcast many moons ago, paraphrased here. The interviewer was talking to some young men who were sent back to Mexico from the U.S. Interviewer: "Were you able to get good Mexican food while you were in the U.S.?" Young man: "We love Taco Bell." Interviewer: "What?!!" Young man: "Yeah, it tastes like freedom." They laughed, and so did I.
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