Eat, Walk, Jet!

My last day in Phoenix was easily one of the healthiest and most relaxing of my entire Eat, Walk, Jet! month. (I know because I’m finished and writing this in retrospect.) Steve and I hiked North Mountain, then we drove across town to Aly’s cousin’s house and lounged in the pool. I have a great photo of me chilling in a floatie with a Tecate in the little drink holder, the sun all over me, and my smiling face looking over the New York Times Magazine. There was a fifteen or twenty minute span when my head was back on the floatie and I was drifting around the pool in and out of the sun, where there wasn’t a thing in my mind. Nothing. For some people it takes sitting and concentrating on their breath; for me it takes chlorinated water, a blow-up toy, a cheap Mexican beer and a dry breeze. I’m easy.

That evening we were looking for a place to eat and almost by chance stopped at this South Indian place. I forget the name, but it had “100% VEGETARIAN BUFFET” painted in four-foot-high letters across the windows in the front of the place, which faced one of the millions of six-lane roads in Phoenix. It’s a great technique, because it’s so much bigger than a sign, but you would usually associate that kind of promotion with a car sale (“O% FINANCING UNTIL JUNE ‘10!”) or a going-out-of-business sale (“EVERYTHING MUST GO!”).

Aly spent some time in South India a while back, and she helped us order. I can’t say what we had, other than it was all absolutley fantastic—and so much healthier than most of what I’ve been eating.

I have to say that between the morning smoothies and juices and vegetarian pizza, I ate well—and healthy—in Phoenix. Thanks to the hippies. (No, really, we even went to a drum circle. In Phoenix. I’m serious. Mind-blower.)

After nearly a month of recreational eating, I thought it would be good to get a little exercise. Steve and I spent a couple of years hiking dry, volcanic trails while we were in Peace Corps in Cape Verde, so we decided to tackle something on the edges of the Valley.

North Mountain isn’t exactly pretty, with its crown of antennae, nor is it an ambitious hike, but it was nearby, a good workout, and gave us some spectacular views of a vast, flat valley broken up along the horizon by a smattering of dramatic peaks and distant, sleepy ranges.

As an article on The Arizona Republic’s website says, the “summit” of the mountain is actually fenced off. There are more antennae on top of this mountain—towers, cones, huge discs and boxes—than you can imagine. And you can’t truly summit because of them.

As Steve said, “I wish we could see the view from up there.” Amen. I also got a bit of a headache once we were standing as close to the top as we could get, surrounded by TV, radio, cell phone, and God knows how many other forms of signals. But I was also probably a bit dehydrated.

Phoenix was looking sleepy until Steve told me we were going to a Mexican market. I saw a vague image in my mind of a huge outdoor market resembling the one on the Plateau in Praia, the captial of Cape Verde, where Steve and I were Peace Corps volunteers. Who knows why, but that’s what I envisioned.

When we pulled into the parking lot of Ranch Market, I was surprised, and a bit skeptical. It looked like a supermarket. I asked Steve, and he said that’s exactly what it is: a Mexican supermarket.

I was still skeptical… Until we walked in the doors. Then I saw that it was exactly what he said it was, but I don’t think you can imagine a Mexican, or Hispanic, supermarket, until you walk into one. What did I see? Racks of brightly colored cakes, huge multi-gallon tubs of agua fresca in every color in the rainbow, ceiling fans with streamers hanging from them, a dozen long tables with Mexican families eating lunch, half-a-dozen food counters with every kind of food available—and that’s just the entry way. Imagine the biggest supermarket in your town, and instead of being sterile and poorly lit, it looks like there’s a party going on, and instead of mounds of broccoli and tomatoes and cucumbers, there are tiny limes, dried chiles, dried Jamica flowers, cinnamon sticks, and avocados.

Again, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. But that’s what you see when you enter. I walked straight towards the signs that said, “5 tacos, $5. Mix and match.” There was a taco station with a steam table with about twelve inserts. There was a different filling in each: chorizo, carnitas, pollo, carne asade, buche, lengua, cabeza, tripa, pastor, and much more. I was beside myself. I knew I had to try something new, so I did a three-taco special with rice and beans, and orders cabeza (beef head), lengua (beef tongue), and buche (pork stomach). Sure, I had a tiny little flutter of, “Hmm, cabeza? Buche?” But hey, why not?

Steve wandered off (he’s a vegetarian), and I started talking up the taco lady. She was skeptical at first, as I was the only whitey in the line, but as soon as I asked, “Why two tortillas?” She did a double-take and warmed up.

“I don’t know. I’m Mexican, and I’ve just always eaten them that way. But I think it may be because if you only had one it could break.”

(Hear that, Sabe?)

I told her my friends and I had thought the same. We started talking about what the best topping woul be for each type of meat, and she told me that chopped onion and cilantro is the best. She also let out a little gasp of pleasure and closed her eyes. I loved it. And then she insisted that their guacamole was great as well, and said she would bring me some.

The thing I liked best about this was that she was openly enthusiastic with hardly any prompting. I didn’t tell her I was traveling, I was a taco enthsiast, a writer, a researcher—any of that. She just loved that someone was asking about her cuisine. It was perfect.

Right as I sat down, Steve joined me. He had bought a cheese tamale and grabbed some pico as I bought us two agua frescas. If anyone out there hasn’t had one of these, it’s essentially a mix of water, sugar, and fruit. I had watermelon (though I just chose by color), and Steve had jamica, which I think may be hibiscus.

It was time to dig into the offal. I grabbed the lengua first, and took a big bite. It was very rich, but not fatty. It had that hard to describe flavor that offal, or “the parts we usual don’t eat” have. A flavor in the same category as hearts and kidneys. Dark, rich, complex. I loved it.

Cabeza was next. It was a lot like a mix of beef and pork, but fattier. Good, but not as unique as the lengua.

Buche was last, and the one I was most uncertain about. Stomach, you know? It ended up being a bit chewy, almost rubbery, and pretty greasy. Not bad, but nothing to rave about. But along with the guac, rice and beans, and a pretty little roasted jalapeno, it rounded out an amazing plate of food.

There was a bit of heat. The taco lady had also given me a little side of pickled red onions and habeneros, and all the sauces and salsas were ripping hot. There’s a photo in here of Steve’s face. If you look close, you can see he has sweat under his eyes. This was always the way we knew the food was hot when we were in Cape Verde. I had to snap a pic.

I don’t know why I love this food so much. I clearly have something for simple, pragmatic cuisine, often with Hispanic origins. Mexican food makes me crazy. What can I say? As Steve pointed out, it could also be that I don’t get it very often. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right? After all, Steve said that Mexican becomes ordinary when you live near the source. I’ll take it. Maybe it’s another reason to be willing to accept that there’s very little good Mexican food in Vermont.

Steve and I walked out of Ernie’s Cantina, after a couple of ice-cold PBRs, and hit the closest quik-stop for some Tecate. (We’re living high on the hog here in Phoenix.)

I love how you can tell something about the local population by the food in the local gas station. In Vermont, you find lots of trail mix and granola bars. In Phoenix? Limon chips by Frito Lay. And these “Hot & Spicy” pork cracklins from El Sabroso. I think you can find pork rinds in VT, but not with a translation at the bottom that says, “Fried Out Pork Fat With Attached Skin.” Fantastic. (My belly didn’t exactly agree, though. Hmm.)