Potato Taquitos: A Revelation!

Good news: I have a new friend, and she can cook!

The first good sign: last week she invited us to a little Cinco de Mayo fiesta. On a Monday. At 2pm. The second good sign: walking in and finding
the feast she prepared. Homemade taquitos with an array of fixins, including maybe the best guac I've ever had, chipotle salsa, and arroz verde. The third good sign: when I offered to make micheladas, she and her brother practically threw their arms around me, asking how the hell I knew about those too. A match made in heaven!

The most amazing part of all this is that she's a vegetarian. Meaning so were the taquitos. Oh yes: potato taquitos. Do not let the humble tuber fool you. This thing was rich enough to rival any stewed pig or cow, and texturally a wonderment, the crisp outer edges of tortilla (oh yeah, she hand-makes those too--I don't know whether to laugh or cry about that) against the smooth, creamy, cumin-scented potato. Daubed with some guac and a little smoky chipotle salsa, it was downright perfect, and certainly the best mexican meal I've had since my last foray to the Zone.

A spring day off doesn't get any better than this: sitting on a folding chair, michelada in hand, watching my new friend carefully pin down each taquito in the boiling oil and gabbing about life while the breeze waves the palms and echo park lake shimmers out the window.

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Taco Truck Nite

Much has been written about Los Angeles' embattled taco trucks, so I'll keep this brief and add only one note to the chorus: being a homegrown Angeleno who has lived in New York and been friends with many a New Yorker, "better mexican food" has always been the cornerstone of my argument for LA's ultimate superiority. Yes, New York does a lot of things right--pizza, bagels, better iterations of certain ethnic dishes--but at 4 in the morning, when I've tossed a few back and my benighted stomach is crying out for a greasy salve to ease tomorrow's pain, there's nowhere on earth I'd rather be than waiting on line at Taco Zone, debating whether to get 2 or 3 tacos, feverishly hoping that my pronunciation of "mulita" will be good enough for the owner to understand. Take these beloved specimens away and the only argument I can make is for superior weather. And you can't eat the weather.

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Two can play at this game

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Paean: O Great Chemex

My parents have this crazy hi-tech coffee pot that makes your coffee BEFORE YOU GET UP. They've had it for years; it is their smoother-over of mornings, a trusty butler to be relied upon day in and day out. But all things must pass, and when they upgraded to the 12-cup model (which is a behemoth and not for the small-kitchened) my mom insisted that, being the only coffee-drinking child, I should inherit the old guy.

Imagine her surprise when she came to visit, only to find the beloved appliance unceremoniously wedged under my counter. Which is when I offered her, by way of explanation, a cup of my Chemex. Now I know the Chemex is not for all and sundry. It cannot be programmed; it doesn't even plug in. It's just a glass jar that could pass for a beaker from high school chemistry class, in which you place a rather ill-fitting square filter. But to me, it is perfection. Not only does it brew a fantastic cup of coffee--rich, smooth, all bitterness leeched out via some magic of physics--it represents a way of doing things that my stubborn heart clings to in this gadget-crazed age.

This is coffee you gotta work for: water must be measured and boiled, filters must be soaked, coffee mounded just so. The hot water (not boiling! just under a boil please!) is then poured over the grounds while you watch the alchemized liquid seep out beneath, pooling at the bottom of the beaker. The wait that accompanies the slow pour--for it must be slow, so slow, so as not to flood the grounds--is agonizingly akin to standing on a long line for the bathroom. But what pleasures await the patient coffee-maker! An impossibly clean brew, as if freshly bathed in healing waters! Nothing sour or distasteful, no burn or tang to fret the tongue. This is a drink to be lingered over. And the leftovers make a refreshing glass of iced coffee of a warm spring day...

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before we go any further,

let's have some breakfast, shall we? after all, we are civilized people.

that's better.

a simple breakfast of herbed eggs and bacon, good bread, and strong coffee goes a long way towards making the day right.

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