Culinary Cures

One common question that I often face on weekends after particularly exuberant evenings is "what can I do to feel better?" When I finally work up the courage to roll off the couch, mouth dry, eyes glassy, wincing at my throbbing head, the contents of the refrigerator are of almost certainly no use to me. There will be no cooking done on these haggard mornings. This is an occasion where it is much better to put someone else in charge, to let them take care of you. But where to go? Often the answer is a diner. There is nothing like a typical, greasy American breakfast of eggs, bacon and hashbrowns to calm the stormy waters. In Berlin, Sunday mornings were devoted to brunch. A meal of cold cuts, boiled eggs, buttered rolls and sweet cornichons, maybe with a little fruit, is considered the best thing for ailing minds and bodies.

Once in a state of desperation I took the advise of my favorite writer, Jim Harrison, who had this to say in his fantastic essay Meals of Peace and Restoration: "Picture yourself waking on Sunday morning with a terminal hangover and perhaps a nosebleed, though the latter has fallen from favor. You have a late-afternoon assignation with a fashion model you don't want to disappoint with shakes and vomiting rather than love. Just eat a couple bowls of menudo sprinkled with chopped cilantro and scallions, wild sonoran chiltepins, and a squeeze of lemon. The results are guaranteed by the tripe cartel, which has not yet been a victim of arbitrage."

I have nothing but respect for the greatness of the writer of those words, but I am forced to contend his assertion of the miraculous powers of this vile stew. After choking down an enormous bowl of tripe in spicy broth with raw onions, my stomach felt less than reassured. Cow's stomach has the texture of a kitchen sponge and the consistency of boiled squid. I could picture it there in my own intestines competing to see who could digest whom. I kept it down, and grossed out my friends, but I would not recommend it to someone with a hangover except as a cruel joke. Perhaps that was Mr. Harrison's intention; if so, he got me.


All this leads up to where I had lunch at mid-day Saturday. Two blocks away from me is a Mexican taqueria. Run by Nina, from a small village near Puebla, this restaurant doesn't see many gringos. I am very suspicious of any Mexican food served North of Denver, but this place seemed to have all the right signs. Spanish menus, mariachi juke box, Jaritos in the fridge. Everyone was quite friendly and relieved that I could speak Spanish. They had authentic tacos for $2 each with your choice of chorizo, carnitas, lengua, cabeza, etc., served with a kind of avocado salsa and a fiery pepper sauce. It is unfortunate that the American conception of a taco has been reduced to ground beef, lettuce and cheese folded in a giant tortilla chip. There are so many other creative options that can be eaten taco style. I find that a taco is one of the more psychologically acceptable ways to eat Oaxacan fried grasshoppers. My father once got mad at me for eating a brain taco, he said I was asking for mad-cow disease.

Two of Nina's simple but filling tacos were enough to part the clouds. A michelada to wash them down and I was in sunny Acapulco. A michelada is an ingenious hangover cure that combines some hair of the dog with the essential salts and vitamins and a spicy punch to clear the sinuses. A recipe for a michelada follows:

4 drops of Tabasco Sauce
1/4 tsp Worcestershire Sauce
Dashes of Salt and Ground Pepper
Juice of 1 Lime wedge
1 Bottle of Beer, preferably a Negro Modelo

Mix above ingredients in a glass and pour beer to top. Serve with wedge of lime in a salted glass.

Serves 1.