Coffee Now and Then

Back in the Spring, Summer, and Fall of 2021, those of us vaccinated and boosted thought it was safe to travel again, so I did, a lot. But that’s too much territory to cover. I want to point out a lovely little place my daughter who lives in LA discovered after running across an article about it in “SF Gate.” (https://www.cuyamabuckhorn.com.)

The Cuyama Buckhorn Roadside Resort and Motel in New Cuyama, California is situated in the high desert of Santa Barbara County, miles away from Santa Barbara and Oprah’s Montecito. The high desert speaks to me, as does remoteness, so this little town of 562 residents provides all of that but somehow feels alive too. According to the article it’s been populated by ranching families for generations, initially settled through land grants, and of course the immigrant families who work on the ranches.

The Buckhorn is one of the places out west that I’ve told my daughter to send me for “rehab,” an imaginary all-inclusive place should I ever suffer a celebrity-type scandal/meltdown and need to disappear for a bit. A fire pit, a pool, mountains in the distance, olive trees, a running fountain and other retro western vintage items for decor, everything I would need for recovery.  

I loved the friendly staff in the cafe, and my breakfast of chorizo and perfectly scrambled eggs was delicious, along with good coffee and homemade apple preserves. The servers were so hospitable (and cute too, in their navy and white checked shirts), especially the polite young Hispanic man who apologized profusely when we realized all of the Topo Chico was sold out. He had never heard of it though his family is from Mexico and he was very excited to be going to visit them soon in Michoacan. I had to give him a little primer on my favorite non-alcoholic drink and its origin in Monterrey Mexico.

Our young, unassuming bartender was another treat for us--a California native who never had been outside of the State--so full of enthusiasm for California’s bounty that he could be the next Huell Howser. We asked him how he ended up in New Cuyama, but I can’t remember other than he grew up near San Francisco, had moved a lot with various jobs, loved the outdoors and sounded like a serious hiker/adventurer. This drew him to this area, surrounded by the Sierra Madre Mountains, the Carrizo Plains National Monument, and Los Padres National Forest. He told us all about his signature cocktails, and with lots of enthusiasm, as we were his only customers at the bar, gave us several samples, all of which were terrific. Wish I could remember their names and his too, as he gave me hope for the future.

We told him our route back to LA, through Los Padres National Forest, and he let us know there would be twisty roads, but he understated that somewhat. The High Road to Taos (which I had driven by myself in June) was easy compared to this one. I’m glad my daughter was driving, as the road climbs over a 1,000 feet and then twists and turns back down again to lower elevations, as overlooks show the plunging road below. I was a bit queasy when we arrived at Ojai but I recovered with some California wine from Ojai Vineyard.

It’s a bittersweet year for Day of the Dead. Lopez Obrador has issued a three-day mourning period in Mexico for Covid victims, and flags in Mexico City are being flown at half-mast. But I also see beautifully staged photos on Instagram of locals dressed in spectacular colors and faces painted artfully as skeletons, from all over Mexico, and scenes in cemeteries of indigenous families keeping guard, awaiting the spirits of their ancestors to return.  The colors and abundance of cempasuchil flowers are everywhere. Every year I long to be there, and promise myself that the next year I will be. If we get a vaccine in time, I will go in 2021. That is a promise to myself.

It is also a bittersweet year for me. For the first time in over twenty years I am not celebrating in a Spanish class with students. There is no Pan de Muerto from La Hacienda Bakery (now closed) for them, no watching “Coco”  (even university students love it!). No trip with my friend Theresa to participate in the all day Dia de los Muertos festivities at Cheekwood in Nashville, eating more Pan de Muerto than we should. No ballet folklorico, no Aztec dancers.

   It only took a few weeks after moving to New Mexico years ago to realize what green chile means to the State. It was green chile everywhere we went, green chile hamburgers, cheeseburgers and hotdogs at Blakes' Lotaburger (I still can't eat a hotdog without green chile), green chile omelets, chiles rellenos, green chile enchiladas, green chile dip, and on and on. We discovered that just ordering “green chile” means a bowl of stew, some more pureed and green looking, and others more chunky and meaty.  Also we realized that our reaction to eating green chile was becoming less and less dramatic, and the taste not quite so fiery, though a wiping a sweaty brow while eating it is unavoidable. I discovered that there is an addictive quality, scientifically supported, due to the natural high effect one gets from eating green chiles, after the mouth has adjusted to the heat-producing qualities of capsaicin. The indigenous people of Mexico and South America knew its value thousands of years ago; chilli, the Nahautl word for it, was used as a natural digestive and herbal medicine for ailments as far-reaching as arthritis, shingles and toothaches, according to my Green Chile Bible.

Nothing indicates autumn in New Mexico like the aroma of green chiles roasting in big round gas burners in the thin desert air. Thanks to a good friend in Albuquerque I discovered a great place, the Fruit Basket on 4th Ave., for all types of chiles, ristras, and Hispanic foods such as biscochitos, or just for standing by the gas burners outside to smell the smell.  

I always go for the Blake’s Green Chile cheeseburger but have to say I found a better one, the  Pueblo burger, sold at a stand near the Jemez Reservation on the way to Jemez Springs.  My new favorite food, it is served on Fry bread with both red and green chiles. 

Now mostly shut up at home in the South, with a poor approximation of the New Mexican Hatch green chiles, I reminisce about smells of the desert, and how freely I used to travel. It was easy to get back there, a quick flight on Southwest to Houston, change planes, and a short time to ABQ. I’m pondering a road trip if this pandemic lasts much longer.

Like everyone else during this pandemic, I’ve been at home since March, when my spring semester teaching went to online learning. So, no travels, just fantasies of travel and hanging onto hope for the future (Southwest extended my unused travel credits until September of 2022). I’ve taken a rather long break from this blog to work on my book, but some days my wanderlust takes control and I need to dig back into my photo archives to relive my days of unfettered freedom. I realize there are much more pressing concerns in the world, and many people are suffering, but I thought I’d allow myself a little indulgence in nostalgia, and the memory of a truly memorable meal.

This is the time of year I start thinking about Chiles en Nogada in Mexico. It is the time of year I want to be in Mexico City and hear the gritos by El Presidente on the balcony of the Palacio Nacional to celebrate Independence Day, September 16th. I can never go due to teaching, however due to opting out this semester, I’m free but stuck at home. So I’ll just envision my Chiles en Nogada instead, at my favorite Mexico City restaurant, El Cardenal, with white linen napkins and formal waiters.

A beautiful dish, it reflects the colors of the Mexican flag and consists of a green poblano pepper, stuffed with a ground beef mixture of nuts and fruit in a tomato sauce, covered with a creamy walnut sauce and topped with pomegranate seeds. It is served everywhere in Mexico City during the build up to Independence Day, with bright beautiful photos of it adorning all the restaurant windows advertising los mejores chiles en nogada! 

It is considered by many to be the national dish of Mexico and dates to 1821, when, according to Rick Martinez of the New York Times,”the general of the Mexican Army, Augustin de Iturbide, marched into Puebla after signing the treaty that recognized Mexico’s Independence from Spain. To honor the general and his men, local nuns from the convent of Santa Monica prepared a meal using fresh apples, pears, peaches, walnuts and pork.”

The minute my daughter and I walked in the fresh corn tortilla smell hit me.  It’s the smell that always jolts me back to Mexico, but here it was magnified.  We sat close beside the heated comal and soaked in the warmth and the smell.  I watched as two young girls wearing face masks patted the tortillas and flipped them onto the comal.  I ordered the tortilla sencilla, with the refried beans, Oaxacan cheese (quesillo or Oaxacan string cheese) with a choice of red or green salsa (always going for the green!).  It was simple but perfect, and not enough, so I ordered another quickly, and downed it in about three bites.  My daughter had a similar tortilla with a creamier cheese on top, and some other taco that had a whiff of hoja santa to me, a flavor that for me does not synchronize well with other Mexican flavors, but she loved it. And after traveling to Mexico my whole life, it suddenly dawned on me how much I love refried beans, thanks to Itanoni, which means “flower of corn.”

The legend hanging from one part of the restaurant tells how many years ago, during a famine, the red ant confessed to Quetzalcoatl, the secret of the solution.  He transformed himself into a black ant, went to the mountain, and brought back the most valuable of all foods....corn.  In Spanish, the legend is very beautiful and magical.

Our server and another young girl who had patted out our tortillas were talkative, sweet and curious about us, wanting to know where we were from, as we waited on the street for a taxi they called for us to take us to Central de Abastos.  Were they curious because we were headed to a rough part of town?  Or were they simply wanting to know a bit about us?  Though they asked which state we lived in, I don’t think they had ever heard of Tennessee.

An article in the New York Times on December 26, “The Fight to Save the Traditional Tortilla,”  states: “In May, more than 75 organizations and businesses created the Alianza por nuestra Tortilla to promote corn tortillas.”  In their view “a good tortilla is made from scratch, through the traditional process known as nixtamalization, in which dried corn (ideally heirloom varieties) is cooked in water with calcium hydroxide (called cal in Mexico) and left to soak overnight.  This unlocks nutrients, and makes the tortilla a valuable source of vitamins, minerals, and protein.” The article focuses on Petra Cruz Gonzalez, president of the Union de Palmeadoras in Tlaxiaco, which began in 1990 in Oaxaca in order “to organize the handmade tortilla producers who are fighting to keep this millenniums-old tradition alive in the face of cheaper competitors.” As she states, “we sell quality, not quantity.” Now that I have become educated I will be more vigilant in supporting these magnificent carriers-on of tradition, and seek out their products (though difficult in the U.S.). And I will return to Itanoni whenever I can.  As reflected in their lovely myth, “ponemos el acento el el maiz criollo,” (we put the accent on heirloom corn), this places cares deeply for tradition and history. 

This was one of her favorites, the Richelieu Bar at Arnaud’s (www.arnaudsrestaurant.com) and my first real exposure to adult company, in full hedonistic party mode. Barbara was the mistress of throwing together newly acquired acquaintances and old friends in order to hit up all the classic French Quarter establishments. She felt it was better for me (as a 15-year old) to learn how to drink in adult company, but she really just liked any and all drinking companions. She also strongly believed that one must understand the history of the city, so she never shortchanged me on that front either. Here’s an unforgettable part of the restaurant which she showed me, in a hidden section upstairs that requires permission from staff to see, that houses old Mardi Gras ball gowns and costumes:

This was pretty exotic stuff for a girl from Nashville. As was every bar and restaurant she took me to: Galatoire’s, Antoine’s, Pascal’s Manale, Papa Joe’s, Felix’s Oyster Bar, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop (for me the bar that most epitomizes a French Quarter bar, dripping with dark, dank bar smells and history).  When Barbara was single, newly arrived in New Orleans, and living on Esplanade, she took her laundry there, and they let her do it in the back of the bar!  Yes, always breaking the rules and thinking nothing of it. That’s where she took me for my first beer, a Dixie, memorably cold and bitter, but I loved it, sitting at the bar with her, still dressed up from my lunch earlier at Galatoire’s. One of her former roommates from that era was a cocktail waitress at the Monteleone, where her husband played piano in the Carousel Bar (with an ever-present cigarette hanging out of his mouth). They seemed impossibly glamorous and dissolute to me, but that too was part of my education, Aunt Barbara style

Palm Springs. I know, it sounds a bit pretentious and exclusive.  And it evokes Old Hollywood and the Rat Pack.  Not the usual rough around the edges type of place which I’m drawn to  And yet, the idea of seeing it has been intriguing to me because I’m a desert lover, and there is no more heart of the desert type place than Palm Springs, an oasis in the middle of Coachella Valley, in the Mojave desert. I think this proximity to Coachella has something to do with its rediscovery as an escape for a new generation of Angelenos.  And as stimulating as Los Angeles is, the flip side of it could be said to be Palm Springs, where time slows down, and simple pleasures take over.

Nothing makes me happier than having my morning coffee on a rooftop, especially one with a view of red-tiled roofs, bougainvillea, and a view of the mountains (a few with traces of snow on the peaks). Actually, Palm Springs sits within four mountain chains, the San Bernadino to the North, the Santa Rosa to the South, The San Jacinto to the West, and the Little San Bernadino to the east. Sitting in the afternoon sun at the pool at our hotel, Los Arboles, facing the San Jacinto Range, I knew it was what my sun-deprived, gone-on-too-long Tennessee winter body and soul needed. I could have sat there for a week and not moved, other than to take my coffee up on the roof in the morning, and a glass of wine up there in the evening.

But we did venture out, my daughter and I, and the town is laid-back, kitschy and quickly navigable.  There are many shops dedicated to the mid-century look in furnishings and the town has a retro vibe, and devoted to all things desert. It’s quiet too, and though it has developed a reputation as a party town, I didn’t feel it.  After a margarita by the pool, a real indulgence for me, but irresistible, and a glass of wine at the bar at Colony Palms, we headed back to Los Arboles and its onsite restaurant El Mirasol (www.elmirasolretaurants.com), a beautifully lit outdoor space where we had great guacamole, beef chile rojo and pork chile verde. I learned that their homemade salsa, the Salsa Dona Diabla, was so named for the legendary 1950 Mexican film starring Maria Felix, and that it is an old family recipe. I guess I’m becoming one of those people who looks back nostalgically at “the way things were” but Palm Springs seems to indulge that tendency.

In fact, my short time there felt like an indulgence in many ways: of my need for sun and the desert, an escape from Tennessee, the aesthetic of Mexican decor,  food..... and also for bacon.  Sometimes you have to give in and so for the first time I indulged in a bacon flight at Cheeky’s (www.cheekysps.com), where I also had a delicious breakfast quesadilla, and my daughter, the chilaquiles. It’s my first time for flavored bacon and sure would have loved to try the chicharron crisp-flavored ones (in order to go full-on pork ) but they ran out.

Safely esconced in a nice hotel, poolside, surrounded by palms, mountains and desert quiet, bathed in the magical light of Southern California, with my eyes locked onto the San Jacintos, I realized that the wildness up in those mountains was so very close, reflecting eons in a geographical spectrum. A day’s hike up there and the perspective would change, the hotels and pools and shops would recede and that vastness would take over.  It will outlast us here on earth, I’m sure. There is nothing that is as eternal, full of mystery and untouched by man as the desert and for some strange reason, I find that a comfort.

We headed straight to get Chicago pizza at Piece, a great little local place in Wicker Park, near our Airbnb, and I was completely won over by the pizza, the city, and the friendly locals. Our first evening in Logan Park, we took our host’s recommendation for dining and went to Longman and Eagle (www.longmanandeagle.com/), a wonderful neighborhood place not far from us.  On a bitterly cold night, it had the great warmth and friendliness I absolutely needed with my own personal heater pushed up next to me by the host. Being on vacation we splurged with cocktails, a Sazerac for my daughter, and Life and Thyme for me, made with gin.  The house pate and foie gras with heavenly mustard and pickle relish put me in a state of nirvana, as did the broccoli gratin casserole and a dessert of coffee pot de creme and homemade beignets, all superb.

My belated birthday meal unfortunately didn’t happen at either Topolobampo or Frontera Grill, as they were both closed that week, however Lena Brava, one of Bayliss’ other 13 restaurants in Chicago was available.  The hostess remembered my story (by phone) of waiting almost seven years to get to Chicago to use the gift card and was pleased to seat us in a “special place,” in view of the open fire pit (”lena” means firewood, and “brava” is fierce or ferocious in Spanish).  The cuisine is based on the seafood and fire-grilled specialties of Baja California.

I think I chose my cocktail, Agave Pair with Pear, for its lovely name, but it may also be the most aesthetically beautiful drink I’ve ever seen (and one of the best-tasting- I’d be in trouble if I could get them anywhere!) with the star anise floating on top. It included Milagro Reposado Tequila, Sombra Mezcal, pear, clove, lime and St. Elizabeth Dram. My daughter chose the Lena Ice (Lena Wahaka, mezcal, Ancho verde, yellow chartreuse, lime and cucumber). As I sipped my heavenly drink, I thought of an episode of “Mexico One Plate at a Time” many years ago in which Bayliss is in an elegant Mexico City restaurant extolling tequila’s virtues, and telling the viewers that it should be considered more of a cognac, and sipped to be really appreciated, moving us slowly out of the frat-party mentality of slamming shots back with lemon and salt.  He had a very good Reposado and sipped it slowly. Now everyone is on this bandwagon of considering tequila a high end drink (see the NY Times article: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/07/style/types-of-tequila.html).  I think Rick Bayliss is somewhat overlooked now (except in Chicago) as bright new young chefs from Mexico take the spotlight. Yet I do remember him (on his show) in Mexico City years before it became one of the top destinations for foodies, and tequila and especially mezcal became de rigueur drinks/ingredients for hipsters.

Our shared meal consisted of half dozen oysters, Rock Crab salad, and Michoacan Avocado (Oaxacan pasilla-sesame salsa, seasonal citrus, toasted pumpkin seeds, red onion, micro cilantro, with toasted chapulines (finally ate some!- albeit ground up finely in the salsa). My main course was the Octopus Pibil (again I remember the first episodes of “Mexico” when Bayliss began taping his show in the Yucatan, and then recreating the sunken smoke pit in his Chicago backyard so he could cook authentic cochinita and pollo pibil). And the piece de resistance--my belated birthday dessert--Raspberry chamoy tres leches, adorned with white chocolate shavings and raspberry ice cream.   It was worth braving the bitter temperatures to fly north for this.  All that was needed was a sighting of the celebrity chef himself.

And why was I so afraid of the cold? I imagined my daughter and I standing out in the frigid air, unable to negotiate the lock system for our self-check-in, our phones dying due to the cold (which actually happened to us several times!) and unable to contact our Airbnb host. I also worried that Chicago would shut down, and all the museums would be closed.  That’s the problem when you grow up in the South, and everything closes due to just a FORECAST of winter weather on the way.  As it turns out, all the museums were open, crowded with families and school children still on Christmas break, and we actually got in free to the Field Museum (as non-locals), I think in order to make the long line go more smoothly.  

Many years ago, between my sophomore and junior year in college, I did a foolish thing and ran away with a classmate, a manipulative deceitful guy, to spend the summer in Montana with him.  I came to my senses, thank God, and two weeks later, took the Greyhound back to Nashville.  My first time in Chicago was spent at the Greyhound bus station (changing buses there in order to head south), a monolithic three-story building downtown, entirely full of Mexican men (confirmed by a visit to the National Museum of Mexican Art, where I learned this this migration of Mexicans to Chicago did in fact take place beginning in the early 70′s)  It was 1970, and my eyes were opened by this demographic shift in the country I had not seen yet in Tennessee.  I thought my Spanish degree could only be put to use by traveling to other countries. That youthful escapade left me with two things: a love of the wide open spaces and big sky country of the west, and the realization that my world in Nashville was too small. 

So here’s to my return to Chicago, after 47 years, and to travel.  As my mother said, even if it takes many years, with layers of experience unfolding gradually, travel will open your eyes for the better.

I have been programmed to flying into Louis Armstrong Airport and immediately soaking in the essence of New Orleans for so long that it was disconcerting to grab my rental car and head out of town onto a dark Mississippi highway. I have no doubt that Mississippi highways are the darkest ones at night. Also I’m aware that as a desert-lover I am not like most Americans who long to live by the water, however, rising early on my first morning and watching the sun come up over the bay almost converted me, if just momentarily.  As did our day after Thanksgiving “cultural field trip” (as my niece so aptly put it) to Pass Christian to buy fresh shrimp right off the boat (Captain Ray’s) and fresh crab meat from a fish market for the day’s gumbo.

After shopping for fresh seafood,and smelling it right from the source, there seemed to be no better lunch stop than The Blind Tiger.  Thanks to encouragement from my brother-in-law, my sister, niece and I agreed that a cold beer, though not yet noon, was all that would do (and it’s OK while on vacation, especially by the water).  Being close to Louisiana I opted for an Abita Amber, perfect with the Tiger Oysters and Mahi Mahi tacos which we shared.  Even though oysters are plentiful everywhere now due to overnight shipping, somehow they taste better by the sea, enhanced by the smell of salty water.

I can usually find a Latin American connection wherever I go, and before this unexpected midday respite, we learned from the plaque out front that Blind Tigers were “illegal bars of Southern towns that served local moonshine and bootleg whiskey during Prohibition from 1919-1933.” The shipments of rum came from Cuba through the Bay of St. Louis on small boats called runabouts.  Even Al Capone played a part, here in the Deep South, and an awareness of this illicitness added a sense of danger and romance to the experience.

The cultural field trip kept on giving as my niece and I, on our walk back to the cottage from downtown Bay St. Louis, stopped to admire the Angel Tree, with a long interesting history in the area, going back to the 1900′s when it was saved from demolition by Ovenia de Montluzin.  Much later, on the grounds of the Bay Town Inn, now the Montluzin family home, three people (and a pet dog) staying at the Inn clung to it for several hours during Hurricane Katrina and were eventually rescued.  It was later moved to this spot, having been carved into angels.  

 The oldest restaurant in Corrales is Perea’s Restaurant and Tijuana Bar, a fact that all the locals point out to you.  Established right after Prohibition in 1935, it has been in the family since its inception.  The hours are limited to lunch only, 11:00 am to 2:00 pm, though this seems like a loose arrangement depending on whom you talk to. It is open on Monday nights, when the Sandia Bar (whose current claim to fame is due to a famous scene filmed inside for Season 3 of “Breaking Bad”) down the street closes. It is a great place for a green chile fix and to soak in New Mexico’s history and rustic adobe atmosphere, plus the bonus of really friendly servers, and the best sopapillas anywhere.  When I asked someone where the name Tijuana Bar came from, I was told that the original owner, John Perea Sr. named it for the place where he and his wife honeymooned.

If your eyes are open in New Mexico you can’t escape the history of the Spanish and Native American civilizations, and you will read about the Pueblo Revolt (against the Spanish) of 1680 in all the museums.  As I drove through Santo Domingo Pueblo on my way to Kasha-Ketuwe Tent Rocks National Monument, I discreetly photographed some of the many hornos I saw in almost all back yard residences.  I hope I may be forgiven if I violated Pueblo sovereignty by snapping a few quick photos, but I was simply wishing for some of the heavenly baked bread that comes out of them.  I saw many signs advertising various Pueblo Feast days, most of them later in the summer, or early September.  I will have to return then someday. Now that I’m back in Tennessee I feel that I am missing out, especially regarding the roasting of green chiles that emits one of the best smells in the world,and permeates the air everywhere in September.  I am having to satisfy my green chile cravings with El PInto brand roasted green chiles (which travel well in little plastic containers and are surprisingly fresh) which I brought back to Tennessee with me.  My supply is dwindling after sharing with other green chile aficionados, and hoping my friends who grow their own here in Tennessee come through for me soon.

I am happy that Merida seems much the same, but one very apparent change is that there are many new restaurants and shops on the Parque Santa Lucia. I always loved this corner of the city but other than Thursday night serenatas and dancing of mostly elderly couples (quite good!) there was nothing much to do there but admire the architecture. So I rejoiced in a delightful place to go, La Recova, (recommended by my hotel as “fancy Argentinian”) for a glass of wine in the evenings.  When Mexico updates, there are usually very artistic elements involved, and progress can be good.  This lovely space, an historic plaza and church on the opposite corner, which according to “Yucatan Today” was first established in 1565 for the use of slaves brought from Africa, was empty for many years.  Now it’s a real destination in downtown Merida, and with the installation of giant “sillas tu y yo” or “conversational chairs” (seen in the background of the photo), it’s a new place for selfies.

My favorite place to eat in Merida is La Chaya Maya (see blog post dated June 26, 2013).   I alternated between the two locations, both close to my hotel, one on Calle 57 and the other on Calle 55.  During my time there, I managed to eat most of my yucatecan favorites:  panuchos, pollo pibil, sopa de lima and salbutes, this time with pavo en relleno negro, a Yucatecan speciality which includes turkey, ground meat (or “but”) recado negro, the paste which gives it the black color, tomato, onion, chiles, epazote, garlic and hard-boiled eggs.

But the best thing at La Chaya Maya and other Yucatecan restaurants is the little bowl of pepita en pipian, a salsa made of pumpkin seeds, tomatoes and chiles, which with tortilla chips (never too many!) is absolutely the best way to begin a meal (seen at right in photo, and in other photographs, already quickly consumed). 

Coyoacan also provides a great window into the world of street food and street markets.  From Frida’s house to the Jardines are several blocks of crafts/clothing/street food vendors.  It is easy to get distracted by all of this. A strict adherent of my own “Mexican street food rules,” my daughter just informed me while there that if her husband had been with us, he’d have broken all of said rules in one day. Still I love to look at it and smell it, and often think that it is those smells that propel me back to Mexico so frequently.

I had read about Corazon de Maguey, a mezcaleria and restaurant in my “Moon Mexico City.” I also looked it up online and saw a wonderful video about their mezcal.  Always looking for historical significance in my travels, I decided it would be a good place to eat and try a vuelo (flight). I don’t consider myself a fan, but it is having its moment in the culinary world, and, I thought, why not have some in the heart of its country of origin? Also, one of my daughter’s goals was to go to a mezcaleria in Mexico.

We chose the house brand, Espadin, for our flight. Our server explained to us the blanco was the youngest of the three, the aÑejo, aged longer in French Oak barrels (three to six months) and the last one, tinted red, called pechuga de mezcal, contained fruit, grains, herbs, spices and pechuga, or chicken breast. As we all processed that bit of information, I asked our server, “Es cruda?” (is it raw?) yes, she answered affirmatively. We were all picturing a raw chicken breast being dumped into the fermenting mezcal and wondering if the alcohol would kill the bacteria, when I remembered a recent article I had read online in “Eater: A Guide to Understanding Mezcal de Pechuga.”  It explains the process as “when a finished mezcal is redistilled with local fruits, grains and nuts and a raw chicken or turkey breast is hung over the still, cooking in the emanating vapors, supposedly adding to the spirit’s final flavor.” 

Each of the three of us had a different personal favorite, and mine was the pechuga, though I could not taste a hint of meat, more like anise. Those orange slices are covered in sal de gusano, or worm salt, which was quite tasty and brought the conversation around to my bringing home a bottle of mezcal years ago, with a worm in it (bad Mother!) for my daughter, and how “drinking the worm” from cheap tequila was considered a badge of honor back in the hippie days.

Our meal was delicious, and perhaps my favorite part was the little cups of spicy shrimp soup served as an appetizer. I ordered the panuchos de cochinita pibil with aderezo cremoso de chile habanero on the side, a very hot cheese dip (the word habanero should have given me a clue to the degree of hotness).

Corazon de Maguey is aesthetically beautiful and it is that beauty is what draws me to Mexico.  It is a place of bold, opulent colors, which shows to the world its history in every corner. And it is what one remembers later amongst the grey of winter.

All of my information about this place came from my daughters, that Roi Choi and his partner have chosen areas which previously have had few healthier fast-food options, and has provided employment and a culinary variety to a lower socio-economic neighborhoods (the other restaurant is located in Oakland, CA). And in spite of the recent poor review from NY Times critic Pete Wells, who gave the Oakland location zero stars, I liked my hamburger with real cheddar cheese, served on a great roll with a thousand-island style sauce (though I could have done without the Iceberg lettuce).  And I liked that the drink offerings were aguas frescas of various flavors, not the usual cokes and soft drinks, but mostly I appreciated that it was in a part of LA I never thought I’d travel to, and found it exhilarating for that reason.

My youngest daughter had longed to see Watts Towers for years, and I only had a vague understanding of what they were. After reading on the site’s marker about the life’s work of Sabato Simon Rodia, Italian immigrant and tile mason (1879-1965) and seeing it firsthand, I immersed myself into a recent quandary:  What constitutes the elusive inner spark of certain people who have a vision and follow through single-mindedly in the pursuit of said vision? Is it simply eccentricity or something of the Divine? Rodia worked on this project for 33 years, from 1921-1954, and then he left it for good, and moved to Northern California.  It is now a National Historic Landmark and on the National Register of Historic Places in Los Angeles.

“The San Juan Market is famous throughout the city for its exotic produce, unusual meats (from crocodile to iguana), wonderfully fresh fish, and an abundance of gourmet and imported products....Toward the back of the market, you can watch (or run past) as skilled butchers strip lambskins from hanging carcasses, and piles of suckling pigs lie stacked atop each other other.  In short, it is a feast for the senses and a popular stop for foodies.”

I have hesitated for some time to post this photo, taken this past summer while there, but here it is (vegetarians beware!):

Though certainly no foodie, I was determined to find this market, even on a rainy day, and had several “disculpe senor” moments in confirming the location. I braved the butcher section (I didn’t run, just slowly meandered) and marveled at the fresh fish and pulpo (octopus), ever-present in Mexican markets.

I then wandered through the more aesthetically pleasing fruits and vegetables, had a nice conversation with the vendor at “Oaxaca Lindo” which sells chapulines (fried grasshoppers), gusano (worm) de maguey, queso oaxaqueno, mezcales and moles.  I bought a molinillo, a wooden whisk stirrer for foaming milk chocolate or milk in coffee, though I should have been more adventurous and tried some of his exotic fare.

My last stop was La Jersey Gourmet, selling a huge assortment of gourmet cheeses, said to be a great stop for tapas, cheese plates and charcuterie, coffee and even samples of Spanish wine.  Too bad I was there early in the morning and didn’t feel I could justify the wine. Next time I will plan better and hit it in the afternoon.

As I looked at this photograph later, I thought how easily La Jersey would have fit into Grand Central Market in Los Angeles where I had been earlier in the summer, and how the young woman with the cup of coffee reminded me of my daughters, with her bright big smile. (And the young man in the foreground could be a hipster in any city or country).  How connected we are, I thought, these two cultures, historically and geopolitically, and in my case, as I cross the border so frequently, what a tragedy it would be to build a wall between the two.

Here are my favorites at Grand Central Market in downtown LA:

Recently in Mexico City, I was chagrined to realize that when writing about Mexican street food (in a blog post from a year ago) I had left out the most important food of all - elote - corn, the basis of Mesoamerican cuisine and mythology, and the backdrop smell of Mexico. So I want to make up for my shortsightedness and pay homage to this wonderful part of Mexican street life.

For years I have seen signs in Mexico on small vendors carts and everywhere else, Esquites y Elotes. For some reason I never realized that the esquites (from the Nahuatl word izquitl, meaning toasted corn) part of the equation is the corn that has been scraped off and served with mayonnaise, lime juice, cotija cheese and hot sauce served in paper cups and eaten with a spoon, until an Hispanic friend of mine explained it to me.  The elote (from the Nahuatl word elotl) is the roasted corn which is typically eaten on a stick, but to which can be added the same condiments.

As I wandered through the market beside Alameda Park daily and watched the preparation of roasted corn I realized what a colorful addition to street life it provides.  Where else can you walk down the street and on practically every corner see such a beautiful combination of colors and smell such a heavenly aroma?  For years I have tried to define a smell that is unique to Mexico, and some of it can be attributed to the smell of vendors heating up the charcoal in a small comal, preparing to roast corn or to pat out little small tortillas for people to grab for a few pesos as they walk by. Food is everywhere on the streets of Mexico.

Huitlacoche (a black corn fungus ) was in season while I was there in late August and women walked by selling large plastic bags of it.  I had a huitlacoche quesadilla at my hotel one morning and while eating it realized that I had just eaten my first huitlacoche in Los Angeles just a few weeks prior to coming to Mexico. Actually it was a huitlacoche and mushroom taco, but after eating the huitlacoche alone (on the quesadilla) I realized how similar it is to the taste of mushroom (interestingly, the word for mushroom in Spanish is hongo, the same word for fungus).  Both were quite delicious and now I am an real aficionada.

So here’s to Mexican street corn, elotes y esquites, in all their glorious incarnations.

Before my recent trip to visit my daughter and son-in-law all I kept thinking about was Korean tacos and meat in general.  I typically don’t eat much meat, mostly fish and seafood, so somehow I latched onto craving something I’ve never had, having learned about Roy Choi (creator of the gourmet Korean food truck Kogi) and his famous fusion of Korean and Mexican. So on my first day in town we luckily found the Kogi food truck parked near Universal Studios, and managed to be first in line when it opened.

I ordered two short rib tacos (my daughter’s recommendation) and one chicken and wolfed them down in no time.  It was a heavenly fusion of Korean flavors (heretofore only imagined) wrapped in a corn tortilla soaking it all up, and my expectations were completely fulfilled.  I could probably eat them everyday of my life and it provided me with just a taste of more Korean meat to come.

Later during the visit, after much discussion of which Korean barbecue experience would be the best, we settled on Genwa Korean BBQ on Wilshire Blvd. in Hancock Park (genwakoreanbbq.com/about-genwa/).Now I have a new favorite culinary experience of all time (though eating dim sum comes close).  From the first little dishes bought out with so many mysterious little sides, to the kimchi fried rice at the end, and the soju shots of Korean rice wine throughout the meal, there is a continuing evolution of more and more food, and just when you think you have reached a crescendo and satiation, along comes something else exciting and interesting. This is a dining experience extraordinaire.

I wish I could remember what all these dishes contained but not being familiar with Korean food, I had to forego the specifics and go with the experience. There was pork, seaweed, korean miso soup, rice and their version of potato salad, and interesting vegetables, and some really hot peppers. There was a bowl of steamed eggs, which I was too full to try.  There is bibimbap, or mixed rice.  Everything brought to the table comes with a big presentation, (including magical little warm wet towelettes at the end of the meal, which “bloom” like flowers in fast motion) and so it goes with the Korean rice wine, or soju.

Supposedly this wine is much stronger than what we are familiar with and thus you are supposed to go easy with it, but splitting a bottle with my daughter seemed perfect. It’s very good and citrusy, and fun to drink in little shot glasses. 

But it is all about the meat!  Never have I tasted such delectable little strips of succulent tenderness, grilled right in the center of the table, along with onions, peppers, mushrooms and platanos. I learned that the word bulgogi means “fire meat” in Korean, and typically involves thin slices of prime cuts and sirloin, which servers cut into small bite sized pieces, which you can eat alone or wrapped in one of the warm malleable rice cakes with incredible sauces. I was warned that my clothes would reek of the smell after we left, but though they didn’t, I wouldn’t have minded.  I would have gladly carried the smell back to Tennessee with me.

On a recent journey to New Mexico, my daughter and I realized we hadn’t really explored Santa Fe, so we drove up from Albuquerque planning to go to The Chile Shop for a new ristra for the house and to see the Jean Cocteau theater recently bought and restored by Santa Fe resident George R.R. Martin. But we ended up at Kakawa (https://kakawachocolates.com) Chocolate House after my daughter emerged from a quick phone search for coffee shops to tell me about it. Suddenly she was talking all about Meso-American chocolate drinks, something that sounded interesting. We had a discussion about her being a person who craves chocolate, and needs it frequently and me being someone who never thinks about it.  However when I walked into this place and saw the selection, I was smitten.

These were names I immediately related to--Zapoteca, Mayan, Aztec, Tzul, and Havana Rum.  Elixirs they certainly were, in one sense of the word (”a remedy for all ailments; panacea”--Webster’s).  I’ve never had chocolate this good!  It is what chocolate (chocolatl in the Nahuatl language of the Aztecs) should be, and I again gave a secret thanks to those indigenous people who contributed so much to the culinary world. When I returned home and read their website, I discovered much more about the history of chocolate, and was impressed by their thorough research, and by the fact that their chocolates “span the time period 1000 BC to the mid-1900s AD and are representative of the original culinary uses of chocolate.”

My daughter had the Tzul and the Zapoteca and I had two cups of Havana Rum (and could easily have had more).  While there, admiring the Mexican decor, I learned that there is now a “chocolate trail” in Santa Fe, but it was late in the day by then. I also learned that Kakawa comes from the Olmec word, meaning cacao or chocolate.  When we got back to Albuquerque we realized we never saw the theater--the chocolate had put us in an elixir-induced euphoria and we never thought about anything else.