Postales del Paraíso
So Efren (our contractor) swings by the house
and tells me that Luis, the stone guy, has pricing on the tile for the
courtyard and has some samples of a border pattern to use with it and we’re supposed
to meet him at his office in 15 minutes. So I’m thinking that Guadalajara where
we met yesterday is at least 45 minutes away if there’s no traffic, but we jump
in Efren’s truck and go roaring off as Efren explains that we’re going to meet
Luis at the local office not the one in Guadalajara.
So we drive down the highway for about 15
minutes and then Efren suddenly pulls over to the side of the road and stops
the truck. There is no office here or anything else, just a little patch of
dirt on the side of the highway with fields of corn stretching in every
direction as far as I can see. Before I can ask Efren why we’ve stopped in the
middle of nowhere, Luis’ truck swerves off the highway and pulls up right
behind us and he jumps out smiling, a load of tile samples in his arms. So
apparently this is the office; an unmarked patch of dirt on
the side of the highway, just north of the junction with the road to Colima.
This entire stretch of road is apparently an office park, well known to those
who live here, but invisible to everyone else. I look back down the
road and now see what I had missed before; small groups of vehicles clustered
intermittently along both sides of the crossroads with clusters of people
milling about. I’d guess that this has been the local meetinghouse, swap meet,
coffee shop, and office park for this small part of the world for many
generations.
On the way back from the office we stop for
lunch at another one of those roadside stands along the highway. This one is
smaller and less formal than the one we stopped at yesterday but you’d never
know it from the convoy of trucks lined up along the side of the road. The
place is small and easy to miss, but there are two clues; first you’re overcome
with the acrid smell of burning rubber as you drive down the road and then just
beyond you see the reason for this; a patch in the highway ahead that is almost
completely black from the skidmarks of all the trucks that also almost missed
this place.
To call it a restaurant would be an overstatement.
The place consists of a series of tattered blue tarps hanging over a bunch of
mis-matched plastic tables and chairs, two plastic coolers, with half of an old
oil drum serving as the fire pit. It's run by a woman and her husband from
Tlaquepaque and all they serve is Tortas Ahogadas (literally; drowned
sandwich). They’re called “drowned” because the entire sandwich is submerged in
a sauce made primarily of a dried chili pepper called chili de
árbol. Ahogadas apparently are unique to Guadalajara, and like fine
French pastries or great Champagne cannot be produced just anywhere. The
sandwiches are made with individual loaves of birote bread (again a local
specialty that, like tequila, is made only in Jalisco), which has a somewhat
hard, very thick, and crunchy crust and a softer interior similar in texture to
a seat cushion. The bread is sliced open and filled with an assortment of
deep-fried pig-parts and then slathered with cheese and beans. The entire
sandwich is then completely submerged in the sauce until no bubbles emerge
(affectionately referred to by the clientele as waterboarding). The unique
texture of the bread is all that keeps it from dissolving in the sauce. The
whole thing is served in its own warm puddle on an individual styrofoam tray and
garnished with onions, radishes and avocados (and of course more chilies).
Apparently eating ahogadas, like most manly
things, is meant to be accomplished bare-handed (this is a truck stop
afterall). There are no forks or spoons here and when asked, the only response
from the gruff and sweating face behind the eye-searing smoke of the bubbling
hot oil drum is a look of disgust that clearly says, “Spoons! (spat in the
fire) We don’t need no stinkin’ spoons!” So I pick this thing up and despite
the rivers of red chili sauce dripping from my elbows onto my knees, manage to
actually take a bite and to my astonishment find it’s one of the most delicious
things I’ve ever tasted! The sauce (at least for a brief moment) is not nearly
as hot as I’d expected, the pork is moist and tender, and the mix of spices is almost sweet and tastes of
oregano, cinnamon, cumin and something that tastes like harissa.
Efren tells me that the place was started about
30 years ago by the mother of the woman who currently runs it, and that her
sons run day-long shuttles of buckets of chili de árbol and loaves of birote
from her home in Tlaquepaque. He says the place moves up and down the highway
throughout the year depending on where the rains wash out the roads, or where
the Federales come expecting a free lunch. I suggest that she perhaps move down
to the office park, but maybe it's already too crowded down there.
I’m too embarrassed to ask for napkins
(unmanly?) or a hose to clean myself off but I make a mental note to be sure to
bring rubber gloves and a yellow slicker the next time I have to make a quick
run out to the office.
Postales del Paraíso
So Efren (our contractor) swings by the house
and tells me that Luis, the stone guy, has pricing on the tile for the
courtyard and has some samples of a border pattern to use with it and we’re supposed
to meet him at his office in 15 minutes. So I’m thinking that Guadalajara where
we met yesterday is at least 45 minutes away if there’s no traffic, but we jump
in Efren’s truck and go roaring off as Efren explains that we’re going to meet
Luis at the local office not the one in Guadalajara.
So we drive down the highway for about 15
minutes and then Efren suddenly pulls over to the side of the road and stops
the truck. There is no office here or anything else, just a little patch of
dirt on the side of the highway with fields of corn stretching in every
direction as far as I can see. Before I can ask Efren why we’ve stopped in the
middle of nowhere, Luis’ truck swerves off the highway and pulls up right
behind us and he jumps out smiling, a load of tile samples in his arms. So
apparently this is the office; an unmarked patch of dirt on
the side of the highway, just north of the junction with the road to Colima.
This entire stretch of road is apparently an office park, well known to those
who live here, but invisible to everyone else. I look back down the
road and now see what I had missed before; small groups of vehicles clustered
intermittently along both sides of the crossroads with clusters of people
milling about. I’d guess that this has been the local meetinghouse, swap meet,
coffee shop, and office park for this small part of the world for many
generations.
On the way back from the office we stop for
lunch at another one of those roadside stands along the highway. This one is
smaller and less formal than the one we stopped at yesterday but you’d never
know it from the convoy of trucks lined up along the side of the road. The
place is small and easy to miss, but there are two clues; first you’re overcome
with the acrid smell of burning rubber as you drive down the road and then just
beyond you see the reason for this; a patch in the highway ahead that is almost
completely black from the skidmarks of all the trucks that also almost missed
this place.
To call it a restaurant would be an overstatement.
The place consists of a series of tattered blue tarps hanging over a bunch of
mis-matched plastic tables and chairs, two plastic coolers, with half of an old
oil drum serving as the fire pit. It's run by a woman and her husband from
Tlaquepaque and all they serve is Tortas Ahogadas (literally; drowned
sandwich). They’re called “drowned” because the entire sandwich is submerged in
a sauce made primarily of a dried chili pepper called chili de
árbol. Ahogadas apparently are unique to Guadalajara, and like fine
French pastries or great Champagne cannot be produced just anywhere. The
sandwiches are made with individual loaves of birote bread (again a local
specialty that, like tequila, is made only in Jalisco), which has a somewhat
hard, very thick, and crunchy crust and a softer interior similar in texture to
a seat cushion. The bread is sliced open and filled with an assortment of
deep-fried pig-parts and then slathered with cheese and beans. The entire
sandwich is then completely submerged in the sauce until no bubbles emerge
(affectionately referred to by the clientele as waterboarding). The unique
texture of the bread is all that keeps it from dissolving in the sauce. The
whole thing is served in its own warm puddle on an individual styrofoam tray and
garnished with onions, radishes and avocados (and of course more chilies).
Apparently eating ahogadas, like most manly
things, is meant to be accomplished bare-handed (this is a truck stop
afterall). There are no forks or spoons here and when asked, the only response
from the gruff and sweating face behind the eye-searing smoke of the bubbling
hot oil drum is a look of disgust that clearly says, “Spoons! (spat in the
fire) We don’t need no stinkin’ spoons!” So I pick this thing up and despite
the rivers of red chili sauce dripping from my elbows onto my knees, manage to
actually take a bite and to my astonishment find it’s one of the most delicious
things I’ve ever tasted! The sauce (at least for a brief moment) is not nearly
as hot as I’d expected, the pork is moist and tender, and the mix of spices is almost sweet and tastes of
oregano, cinnamon, cumin and something that tastes like harissa.
Efren tells me that the place was started about
30 years ago by the mother of the woman who currently runs it, and that her
sons run day-long shuttles of buckets of chili de árbol and loaves of birote
from her home in Tlaquepaque. He says the place moves up and down the highway
throughout the year depending on where the rains wash out the roads, or where
the Federales come expecting a free lunch. I suggest that she perhaps move down
to the office park, but maybe it's already too crowded down there.
I’m too embarrassed to ask for napkins
(unmanly?) or a hose to clean myself off but I make a mental note to be sure to
bring rubber gloves and a yellow slicker the next time I have to make a quick
run out to the office.
