Homesick for Heartburn

I have lived in a lot of different places over the last decade, Chile, Spain, Germany, and now Boston. Each and every place was obviously unique. There were things that I absolutely loved and other things that drove me to the point of tears, curled into the fetal position and crying for mommy. But of all the hardships and annoyances, the dangers and deprivations, the one gaping fault line that constitutes a common thread running rampant through all of these places is the lack of good Mexican food. Denver is in my experience the farthest you can get from Mexico before the quality of Mexican food takes a serious plunge*. I don't want to get into what constitutes authentic Mexican food. I'm sure there are people in Germany who much prefer the mild Gouda smothered glop that passes for Mexican cuisine to the fiery, life-giving chili peppered goodness that you can get on Federal Boulevard, but they are deluded.

I have been disappointed so many times by crummy Mexican that I have pretty much just stopped trying. But it had been long enough since my last lesson that the weekend before last I decided to try Jose's, just down the street from my current residence in Cambridge. It was an evilly cold evening and on my first attempt to leave my apartment I was nearly knocked into the bushes by an icy wind. Retreating inside I donned my long underwear, hat, and gloves and tried again.

When I arrived at Jose's my spirits lifted. The place was packed with people who seemed to be enjoying them selves. The place is tiny, and I found myself waiting at the bar for a seat with a basket of chips and a very decent margarita (salted, on the rocks) in front of me. The waiters were Mexican and speaking Spanish and the man who finally seated me had a scorpion tattoo on his neck. The decor was tasteful, people were laughing, I felt very much at home. A plaque on the door pronounced that Jose's had been named Best of Boston 2004 by Boston Magazine, presumably in the Mexican food category.

Alas, when my food arrived my hopes were shattered. What sat before me looked vaguely like the chili rellenos that I had ordered, but something was wrong. The black beans were good, the rice bland, but passable with a generous sprinkling of salt. But cutting into the relleno I could see that the cheese was not even melted. The thing was still pretty cold, the battering on the outside was thick and soggy, the sauce was some kind of tomato sauce reminiscent of Spaghetti-O's.

I was appalled. I am not the kind of guy that regularly sends something back to the kitchen. Usually if food is not to my liking I'll grumble a bit and finish the whole plate. But this was simply too much even for my forgiving palate. They took it back and at least got the cheese melted. They gave me 30 percent off which I appreciated, but not enough to keep my mouth shut about the incident. Granted my Boston readership is not wide-spread, but Jose's still gets an emphatic boo hiss.

Part of me wants to think that this was not the fault of the restaurant, but rather the Bostonian clientele. Maybe the fact that there were no Mexicans sitting at the table should have clued me in right away. Perhaps these restauranteurs had blasphemed against their own cuisine in order to stay in business and felt really bad about it. That could excuse the mildness but it still doesn't explain the barely thawed state of my rellenos that night.

So last week I did what I've done before, made my own Mexican food to make up for it. Nick Mattison, my fellow Coloradan and emigre from New Mexico (although last week he denied he was a red-stater) and I decided it was time for some border cooking. One of the problems with this solution however, is that sometimes the ingredients themselves are hard to find. I remember participating in an on-line forum for Americans living in Germany where exactly this conundrum was being discussed. One guy had started growing jalapenos in his garden. There were no Anaheims to be found, no Hatches, no Big Jims, so we settled on a green Italian variety, red bell peppers, and fresh jalapenos.

In an experimental mood back at the house we roasted the peppers over the gas stove, then started musing about what we could stuff them with. We had plenty of jack cheese and used that with the Italian peppers dipped in beer batter to create a close approximation of the traditional relleno. With the others we got a bit creative, with very good results. The red bell peppers were transformed by the roasting and even developed a bit of a kick. We filled them with the cheese and added a mixture of chopped and roasted peanuts, pistachios, and pumpkin seeds. The jalapinos were filled with peanut butter before being coated and thrown into the pan. It was all quite tasty, served with green chili sauce and sour cream with a side of spicy red rice and chips with guacamole. We saved the jalapinos for last as a sort of macho show for Sara, Nick's girlfriend. They were exceedingly hot, as would be expected, but the creamy peanut butter and sour cream made for a surprisingly pleasant tactile sensation in the mouth, and they tasted good too.

That night we had an idea for a show on the Food Network that I intend on pitching, so keep it quiet. It's called The Improvisers. Premise: Nick and I show up unexpectedly at your house. We attempt to make an interesting, delicious meal out of what ever you've got in the kitchen. It could be a trendy SOHO apartment, it could be a trailer in Appalachia. Maybe you just went shopping, maybe you just got back from vacation, we don't know. We might end up having to make Rice Krispy sandwiches. It all adds to the zany hilarity. It's like Iron Chef meets Trading Spouses. I also get access to the liquor cabinet. Just an idea. What do you think? We're taking volunteers to shoot the pilot.

*I'll make an exception for New York City. Despite what the Old El Paso Salsa spokescowboys say, you can find good places to eat every kind of ethnic cuisine in the world there including Mexican.

Hungry in Boston

Welcome back faithful reader to the ineptly named Hungry in NYC blog. As the title of this entry probably conveys, I have relocated to Boston for professional reasons. What with the move, the holidays and an initially ill-equipped kitchen, my cooking and writing has been on a bit of a hiatus. But never fear, this literary epicure is back and once more motivated to combine earthly and ethereal passions the results of which are posted before you.

My equipment problem is no longer an issue thanks to Santa Claus and my lovely family. Two pieces of kitchen hardware I would like specifically to express my gratitude for are my new cast-iron Dutch oven (top, filled with what is soon to be simmering chicken stock) and my razor sharp kitchen knife (pictured below with microscopically chopped carrots and leeks):

I'd forgotten the true pleasure to be derived from a quality piece of sharpened steel. Your abilities as a cook are undeniably enhanced. This knife has now taken on a sort of sacred role in my kitchen. Its creative yet destructive power has the dual nature of the Hindu god Siva who dances the world in and out of existence. This knife's violent dancing on the cutting board stage has already rendered possible the birth of several fine meals.

The heavy black Dutch oven has adopted an equally mystic persona. It is the cauldron of transformation where the magic takes place. That which enters the depths of this great iron basin emerges changed in a tasty way.

The third Christmas gift that has dramatically improved my quality of life is Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles Cookbook. I have yet to see his show, being the luddite that I am when it comes to television, but after reading his books this guy has become a kind of hero to me. Just last night I dreamed that I was participating with 5 other people in 5 -day culinary boot camp that he was leading deep in the Colorado Rockies. He is a tough and intimidating teacher, not only in my dream but also in the pages of his cook book. Heeding his commands does however pay off. So far I have made his recipe for poulet roti, vichyssoise, and roti de porc au lait (pictured below with rosemary potatoes and zucchini). The roast chicken came off the best; I believe it had something to do with the butter. Drenched in its buttery sauce I must admit that I came close to polishing off a whole chicken by myself. I was able to restrain myself however and had a delicious lunch of leftovers the next day with a chunk of French bread. My plan is to try every recipe in the book, then learn the best ones by heart. One problem is that they are generally meant to be made for six people, so here's hoping I make some new friends fast.