The city of San Francisco de Campeche, while blessed with a fairly mellifluous name in Spanish, disguises a less palatable one in its original Mayan, where “Campeche” translates to “Place of Snakes and Ticks.” Such nuisances are by now long gone, and while the place remains a bit off the beaten path in terms of American tourism, it’s still a popular destination for Mexican nationals and European backpackers. The city is the capital of the state of the same name, yet just as the local refining boom town Ciudad del Carmen represents the region’s modern industrial aspirations, Campeche reflects its sleepy, Baroque past. The food culture here, along with that stemming from the inland, colonial-era hub of Valladolid, is steeped in old-world flavors, with a particular emphasis on the fruits of the peak-period spice trade.
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Moving inland, it quickly became apparent that we had reached the Yucatecan motherlode, the full flower of the cuisine only sporadically glimpsed from menus on the Riviera Maya. Our first immersion came via the humble glories of the local cantina, namely La Negrita, a 100-plus-year-old institution which provides a wondrous, boozy vantage on the snackier side of the food culture. From its saloon doors to its warren of rooms and cluttered chockablock aesthetic, complete with bandana-draped bull’s head, the place is still awash in personality, even after its transition from a men’s only social club (as all cantinas once were) to a public watering hole. Here we finally sampled the local spin on Kibbe (in tiny, teardrop-shaped Kibbito form), along with sheetlets of Chicharron de Harina and Palomitos con Salsa (new to me). This being a cantina, all these snacks come for free, plopped down on your table with each new beer.
The problem with beach towns, beyond the usual issues endemic to places with such a high volume of sandal-clad, towel-toting visitors, is that everyone goes home early. This is obviously not the case in larger maritime colonies, in which the nighttime population simply shifts, leaving behind ghost-town agglomerations near the shore but pockets of activity inland or wherever the hotels tend to be. In a place like Puerto Morelos, prized by visitors for its quiet, fishing-village vibe (in addition to some choice snorkeling opportunities) sunset signals an atmosphere of peaceful calm that, on certain quieter avenues, doubles as outright desolation. I did not come to Puerto Morelos to snorkel, restricted by an inherent distrust of seacraft and guided tour activities in general, although I did enjoy a few pleasant spots of offshore fish-spotting (including a ray the size of a medium-range coffee table). I did come to eat however, which creates a less-than-favorable situation upon attempting dinner at 8:30 and discovering everything is closed.
Moon Over Miami is not a great musical. It's not a great food movie either, but it contains enough moments of general culinary weirdness to make it notable, a quality heightened by its lush use of Technicolor shading. Such coloring is, in my opinion, the explanation for the bizarre detail above, in which a jar of pre-made guacamole sauce (pronounced, hilariously, as "gwaca malla") appears in a deep red hue, likely thanks to the fact that the person in charge of the inking had no idea what it was. The odd pronunciation was explained in a recent episode of the linguistics podcast Lexicon Valley, which originally put me on to this cinematic curio; other questions, such as why guacamole is being jarred in the first place, or why the person preparing it describes it as an essential part of her famous hamburger recipe, are a bit harder to answer.
On the Taco Tuesdays of my youth, the menu was always the same: fat flour tortillas, stuffed with black olives, mild cheddar, lettuce, tomato and ground beef, sometimes seasoned with spiced tomato sauce to add a weird Italian-American flourish. As an adult, I’ve mostly abandoned this style in favor of less Americanized preparations, partially a consequence of living with a vegetarian with a highly specific cheese allergy (hint: it’s not lactose). It’s hard, however, not to look back fondly on the old yellow cheese standby, especially as a member of a generation in which the casual gringo taco was perhaps at its prime, dished out at community socials and high school proms (yes, I attended a prom with a “Make Your Own Taco” station).
New York may lag far behind L.A. as a Mexican food metropolis, and Angelinos may still have license to mock our nascent, bodega-rooted taco culture, but I find hope in the idea of humble corner shops turning gradually into restaurants. All five boroughs are dotted with small delis in the process of shifting their primary business model, the stocks of everyday staples vanishing, replaced by stretches of tables and chairs anchored to a food-dispensing back counter. Such eateries usually serve rudimentary, rib-sticking fare, but they’re a starting point, providing the seeds for innovation and opportunity to expand. New York may not be able to match L.A.’s produce or tortilla culture (or the breadth of its Mexican diaspora), but it has potential to grow and improve. In terms of innovation, I have very high hopes for the imminent rebirth of Atoradero, the home-style Bronx restaurant which recently closed due to an egregious rent hike, and is now relocating in dangerous proximity to my apartment. Most bodega-based spots are content to use the same fossilized bagged herbs they sell in dwindling quantities by the counter, keeping the recipes simple, the portions large, and the prices low; Atoradero’s Denisse Chavez, on the other hand, made regular (often life-threatening trips back to her native Puebla for fresh herbs. This isn’t to shortchange a place like Chinantla, which does a few things and does them well. An exemplar of the expanded-bodega tradition, it serves up monstrous cemitas whose diverse layers of ingredients slosh together without becoming indistinguishable. The effect is several sandwiches in one, eggs and avocado and beans and chorizo piled together in a teetering mound. The effect is similar to the clamorous aesthetic of the store itself, which is constructed on a series of stylistic divisions, between canteen and grocery, neighborhood clubhouse and exotic hang-out for young gentrifiers, with Corona décor and colorful sombreros sharing decorative significance with traditional Mexican symbols, right down to the dualistic Aztec-inspired sun-and-moon symbol. Pinned behind a small freezer, there’s even the ultimate syncretic symbol - a bloody-faced Jesus icon pinned with roses and dollar bills - his pain gently soothed by the cool glow of the drinks cooler.
Located about 20 blocks north of Sunset Park’s Mexican district, El Tenampa feels like an outpost of south-of-the-border culture, an impression accentuated by its stockade-style exterior. Stretched across two storefronts and bedecked by one of the neighborhood’s more majestic (and puzzling) signs, it maintains a cluttered general store ambiance, with shelves spanning chilied garbanzo beans (in the lime-tinged style I encountered in Mexico) to mysterious dried herbs (most of them medicinal) and containers of frozen tejocote. Behind these rows of items, across a wide stretch of white tiled, folding-table filled dining room reminiscent of a VFW hall, lies Tenampa’s biggest draw, the hot foods counter. This area dishes out an impressive array of tortas, cemitas, soups and tacos which come in both large and small varieties. In the midst of an ambitious food crawl, I wasn’t in any state to consume most of these things, and so opted for a humble sope, which turned out to be much larger and heartier than expected, a bargain at four dollars.
Always on the hunt for new fillings, I opted for the unfamiliar goat panza (stomach), not even realizing at the time that I was ordering offal. I’ve eaten goat stomach once before, in little tripe-like strips nestled amid the hand-pulled noodles at Sheng Wang, which while delicious and surprisingly approachable, could not have passed as ordinary flesh. The panza, on the other hand, was much sneakier, diced and seasoned to the point where it’s rubbery qualities melted away entirely. It’s hard to say if this is a special preparation or the standard for goat panza, but other Mexican stomach applications seem more standardized. Most famous among them is probably pancita (a.k.a menudo), the hearty soup that doubles as the name of the sadly now defunct Puerto Rican boy band. Enjoying the sope (also stacked with refried beans, lettuce and cotija) on the peaceful grounds of nearby Greenwood Cemetery, there was plenty of time to reflect upon the impermanence of all things, bovid and otherwise. Street food certainly has its own specific charms, but the line between mobile and table dining can be a fuzzy one, especially when you're trawling open-air markets or sidled up against a narrow lunch counter with three worn stools. Sometimes it feels like the only demarcation point is whether your order can be consumed with one hand or needs to remain platebound. That said, I'm going to briefly expand the definition of street food for the purposes of this post, to include any meals accrued from Isla's many loncherias, hearty, rib-sticking fare that's simple in construction and low in price, if not always capable of being carried off with ease.
My first visit to Mexico, back in 2013, was pretty tame affair as far as eating goes. Imprisoned in a labyrinthine relaxation compound by well-intentioned, generous parents, I was able to snag one good local meal (turkey in chilmole) from the resort's 'traditional' Mexican restaurant, some respectable tacos and a few smoky glasses of mezcal. Otherwise the trip was marked by bizarre poolside burgers, serviceable selections (coldcuts, tinga taquitos and nance in syrup, among many others) from a breakfast buffet catering to a mixed American and well-heeled, cosmopolitan Mexican clientele, and the odd snack item from the Oxxo across the street. Here I went a bit overboard, purchasing Pinguinos, Gansitos and Bimbuenelos, the latter drying out in the plane's cargo hold and collapsing into a sugary dust, which slipped through my fingers Treasure of the Sierra Madre style. None of these products were very different from the American snacks they seemed to be emulating, and none of them were very good. On this trip, with so much else to eat and so little stomach space to waste on frivolous junk, I mostly opted out of digging into these mass-market nooks and crannies. That doesn't mean I stopped documenting, and compulsive photography under poor lighting did yield some new information, such as the fact that 'nuez de la India' is not a flavor but an alternate name for cashews, as well the much-less-snackable candlenut, which several translation services improbably claim are also known as 'hombre nervioso.' The hot chile and citrus pairing seems to be a popular one; I bought a bag of corn and cactus derived snack sticks which utilized it, and it also applies to the Takis wave which has swept north to consume so many American adolescents.
Originating in Veracruz, the coctel is a sort of super shrimp cocktail; instead of four rim-draped crustaceans chilling in a bath of tomato sauce, you get them floating in a thick, flavorful broth of tomato, lime, onion, hot sauce and cilantro. These are often supplemented with other seafood (conch, squid, octopus, oysters), avocado and crushed saltines, eaten from a large glass like an ice cream sundae. On Isla and throughout Mexico, these light dishes are the domain of the cocteleria, casual seafood joints which also serve a variety of other option. Among these are ceviche – the classic preparation of lime-cured raw fish, a bit milder here than in many spicy South American iterations - and aguachile , it’s hotter, crunchier cousin.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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