Authors Note: Understand that in no way am I any kind of culinary expert or critic. I just eat a lot of food, and most of it's ethnic; and in my opinion those are usually synonymous. Also, I'm in no way an expert in mexican culture or cuisine. Hell, I don't even speak Mexican.
So awhile back I was out on the town with a buddy of mine. Not to our surprise we eventually became hungry and my buddy said, "hey, I know a good mexican place, let's go there."
Now usually when I'm under the influence of oregonically grown greenery I wouldn't hesitate. But there are two things you should know about my friend: first, he's not very bright, second, and this is what made me hesitate, he's from Minnesota. Grew up there and just moved out actually. Now I've never been to Minnesota. But I was initially suspicious about how much my Minnesotan friend knew about Mexican quisine. Understand that my friends most exciting moment and favorite story involves the time he got front row tickets for Garrison Keillor.
But of course the weed one out, and we headed to this guy's restaurant. The first appearance of this place didn't inspire confidence either. It resembled some sort of retarded bastard love child between a Las Vegas casino and a glass televangelical cathedral. There was an enormous banner in the front window/wall reading: "CARNE ASADA BURRITO! $5.00!"
Now, I'm not sure I understand the "carne asada" craze of several months ago. My highly limited Spanish tells me "carne asada" is just steak. Yet americans have been going on and on about carne asada as if it's some kind of specific fancy dish, like Chicken Kiev, or Fettucini Alfredo. I blame Taco Bell and Joseph Goebbels. You can now find "carne asada" in the butcher section at your local grocery store, it's a label they slap on the nastiest, toughest steak they've got.
After spending an agonizingly long time reading their menu for something good, I cut my loses and ordered the carne asada burrito. It was then that I learned that in some dialects "carne asada" apparently means grease, because if this thing had it's ingredients labelled that would be first on the list. The rest of the meal consisted of a super-sized side of refried refried refried beans, with a shredded velveeta garnished.
It was then that I swore an oath of revenge, I would show my hayseed friend what real mexican food was all about. I didn't have to wait too long.
A few weekends ago me and my buddy went hiking. We climbed the beautiful Mary's Peak, the "highest mountain in the Coast Range." Mary's Peak lives a surprisingly peaceful coexistance with Saddle Mountain, the other "highest peak in the Coast Range." We hiked through enormous Douglas Fir forests and alpine meadows before reaching the top, where we were rewarded with outstanding views of Washington, Oregon, California, and the Pacific Ocean.
On they way back home we were exhausted and famished, so as I was driving through the tiny town of Philomath, Or I decided to stop for lunch, at this little mexican restaurant that was about the size of a tool shed.
Now this is where the crux of my two pronged theory comes in. You can find the best mexican food if:
1. The best mexican comes from shacks. I don't think I have to explain that the best foreign food comes from immigrants. That pretty much goes without saying. Furthermore, it's better that the immigrants are recent immigrants. It's not that people who have been here for a long time aren't good at cooking, it's that after serving americans for years they get disillusioned. It's got to do with too many americans ordering burritos, hold the spice, extra ketchup. It's also more common then not that recent immigrants are poor. Neither the less they have dreams of running a restaurant and they won't be denied. If Horatio Alger lived in this day and age his heroes would be recent immigrants. That said, they're most likely to get their careers started by buying very small walk up restaurants, or drive thrus.
This restaurant that me and my friend stopped at had two windows, one to order from, one to pick up from. It had a small covered dining area with tables and chairs that looked suspicously like the ones you'd find at a McDonald's outdoor play area.
2. You know it will be authentic if it's got things like brain, tripe, and tongue on the menu. It's not that I have the palate for these foods. But other immigrants do. And if other immigrants are eating at this place, you know it's authentic.
It turned out this test of my theory held true. I was awarded with the best chorizo "super burrito" I've ever had. The carne asada tacos weren't bad either. And for desert I got to see my friends face, who just realized what he had been missing his entire life.
So please, the next time you're fiending for mexican, for the love of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, don't go to Taco Bell. Don't go to some seedy horribly lit place. Or some bad "fancy" mexican chain that specializes in warming up your tortilla chips before your meal. Go to a shack, and look for brain and tongue. You won't regret it.
Actually.... just remember: good mexican is bad karma, you'll pay for it about four hours later.
For your dining pleasure, here's a view from Mary's Peak:
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P.S. Since this story was originally concieved, I am pleased and sorry to report that the owners of this shack recently opened a larger restaurant in town, right next to the car rental agency. Pleased because the owners are movin' on up, and saddened because my theory held up. The quality of the food has declined slightly. Brain is no longer on the menu, there is now a piece of notebook paper scotch taped to where it once appeared. I suppose I understand why it was removed, given fucking american farming practices. Still, there quesadillas are to die for. I'll still keep my eyes out for the next shack.
-D.W.