Perhaps I shouldn’t have read Gustavo’s article on the dearth of comida Zacatecana in LA.

Such diversity is a natural result of decades of Mexican migration, but there’s one glaring anomaly: Zacatecas’ culinary traditions are virtually invisible in local restaurants.

This quirk belies demography. The state is to modern-day Southern California what Iowa was for a previous generation of Angelenos: a place known for its work ethic and its conservative values, and for sending hundreds of thousands of its residents to our sunny wonderland.

Now I’m hungry. Not for queso añejo (which my siblings and I always called queso de pata/feet cheese), or even asado (which I don’t really like and have never had at a wedding), but for a torta de chorizo (which I can’t have today, anyway).

My family doesn’t have a quesero, but we do have a chorisero. Every few months, we’ll get a paper bag with some chorizo links. It’s the best chorizo I’ve ever had, not the crap you buy at the store. Last time I had one, a few days after Christmas, was to prove to my Papá Chepe that I do eat.

I wonder if Mamá Toni has made any of her gorditas de frijoles lately. Those would be yummy today. Or capirotada.

Damn. I hope Mamá Toni saves me some.

I love chilaquiles. They’re so simple yet so tasty.

A couple of years ago I started a project to review chilaquiles at local Mexican restaurants. I did one review and then let the project go, but continued to eat my fair share of chilaquiles. The problem with reviewing food is that a photo is necessary, but I often forget to stop and take a picture.

On Friday morning, I was patient… at least for a minute.
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For a long time, I thought all Mexicans in the LA-area had nopales (cactus) in their backyard. Of course, my sample size was small. All my relatives had nopales growing in their backyard. We did too.

The nopales, spread out in a corner of the backyard against a brick wall, were a nuisance to us kids who had to be extra careful while playing. On the plus side, I’m sure they deterred a thief or two from climbing the wall and we were never burglarized.

For Mamá Toní, a native of Zacatecas where nopales grew on every cerro (hillside), nopales are meant to be eaten. They’re for ensaladas and guisos. They go excellent with tortas de camarón during Lent and are an excellent side dish with carne asada. (I won’t even get in to the tasty tunas, or cactus pears.)

Nopales are not only on our frentes, they’re in our tummies too.
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“I’ve never had a bacon-wrapped hot dog.”

My friend almost choked, even though he wasn’t eating anything at the time. He coughed and gasped for air.

“What?!” he finally exclaimed.

His reaction was as incredulous as Diego’s and everyone else’s in the comments to my Obama town hall recap.

Yes, I’ve lived in LA [county, Hacienda Heights isn't in the city] my entire life and never had the desire to eat a danger dog or Salvi Dog or TJ Dog or Club Dog.

I remember my introduction to the bacon-wrapped hot dog: July 5, 1994.

I was 13 years old and caught up in World Cup fever. Mexico and Bulgaria were playing in the round of 16. I’d gone over to my friend Star’s house in Walnut to watch the game with her family. Her mom, Angelita, and tías were in the kitchen working on lunch while everyone else watched the game in suspense.

Star has the honor of being the first and only person to ever offer me a bacon-wrapped hot dog.

I looked at it like I look at cauliflower, with pure disdain and disgust.

“You’ve never had one of these?” Star asked incredulously?

“Nope.”

“Don’t you want to try one?” her sister, Miriam, chimed in.

“Nope. That just looks weird. I like my hot dogs plain. Just a little ketchup, mayo and maybe mustard.”

They shrugged their shoulders and asked their mom for a bacon-less weenie. I enjoyed my plain hot dog and chalked up the difference in hot dog preference to the girls’ Guadalajara origins.

Mexico and Bulgaria tied with one goal each. Bulgaria later won the game in penales. It was excruciating.

The events of that day have been repeated several times since. Every time Mexico loses in the Mundial or loses to the US I feel as crappy as I did 13 years ago. And every time I see a bacon-wrapped hot dog, I scrunch my nose and give it the cara de fuchi.

Simply put, no se me antojan.

One of the things that often bugs me about stereotypes of Los Angeles is that lots of people think that Westside is synonymous with white. Well, that’s simply not true, even in the more affluent community of Santa Monica. I’m not sure about numbers, but judging by the number of Oaxacan restaurants in the area, there a lot of Oaxaqueños on the Westside… and the food is good.

My first review of chilaquiles (a la El Chavo’s huevos rancheros reviews on the Eastside) will be at Juquila.

Now, I have to admit I’m totally biased toward Juquila. It’s the smallest and most humble of the three local Oaxacan restaurants I’ve visited (the other two are La Guelaguetza and Monte Alban). It’s also the cheapest, and the place where most of the patrons are transplanted Oaxaqueños rather than non-Mexican westsiders. I’ve also been going to Juquila several times with good friends and even had a first date there back when I was an undergrad. Yeah, lots of happy times.

I also almost always order los chilaquiles and horchata. Even though the menu offers cecina, tazajo or chorizo as sides, I always ask for a side of grilled chicken breast. The chilaquiles are always yummy (and big!), but this time they made me cry.

Ambiance: the place is small and L-shaped. There’s enough room for about 7 booths along one wall and four or so tables in the middle. The decor is homey, but inviting. They have colorful photos depicting festivals in Oaxaca on the walls and a flat-screen TV above the window to the kitchen (they had TV tuned to Univision for a Copa America match). I went around 3 pm on a Saturday, all the booths were taken up except for one. I could have taken advantage of their happy hour, but chose against it ’cause eating alone is already a little weird, but drinking alone?

Service: good, friendly. They serve yummy tortilla chips with red mole (colaradito) and queso fresco. Also, I only got to read a couple of pages of the book I had just picked up from the library before my food arrived. The young waiter tried to give me huge plate of carne asada before realizing he was at the wrong booth.

What I liked: generous serving; crunchiness of the tortillas lasts for a while, but not too crunchy; queso fresco on top; generous portion of side meat of choice, great for leftovers; affordable price, $7.99 for the dish, $2 for the drink.

What I didn’t like: a little too spicy (at least for me); large pieces slices of onion rings rather than finely chopped onions; they don’t look soggy, but they had a little too much sauce which was enough to soak the lettuce under the chicken; sour cream, I usually prefer my food without it; no side of beans.

Verdict: overall, a very good experience. I’ve ordered the chilaquiles at Juquila several times and will do so again in the future (unless I’m in the mood for mole).

Bonus: the guy across from me — who was annoyingly yakking away on his cell phone the entire time I was there — started talking to me as I was getting ready to pay. He first asked me about the soccer game on TV, since he could not see the TV from where he was seated. He then started trying to say he’d pay for my food if I had a drink with him. No thanks. He wasn’t attractive and had annoyed me, but I was still amused that he was flirting with me.

Juquila,
11619 Santa Monica Blvd., L.A.
(310) 312-1079

Food I can’t eat (at least for 40 days)

Less than an hour after I left Ash Wednesday services, I had my first challenge: the food at the GSA appreciation reception at Westwood Brew Co.

They had a bunch of food I couldn’t eat. They had breaded chicken strips, quesadillas, tortilla chips, Chinese chicken salad, plain Ceasar salad, and platters of fruits and veggies.

I gave up tortillas. Yes, tortillas.

After looking at my plate full of boring salad, some cucumbers and carrots, I told el novio, “maybe I should just give up alcohol.”

He looked at me, paused and said, “but you don’t even don’t drink that much. That would be easy for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A few minutes later, my friend Oiyan walked in. She saw the ashes on my head and started talking about the best part of attending a Jesuit college: Easter break and spring break.

“So what did you give up?” she asked.

“Tortillas.”

“Tortillas?! That’s like me giving up rice!” she exclaimed (she’s Chinese).

It will be hard. Yesterday I felt like just giving up something else like frivolous spending/shopping for stuff I don’t need. I’ve already tried that, it was a challenge, but not in the way tortillas will be. I see giving up tortillas for 40 days not as something that will bring me closer to God, but it will be fun (in a weird, masochistic sort of way).

And no, I’m not just doing this because tortilla prices are going up.

Oso says he’s going to give me this shirt. I think I deserve it. I’ve eaten three bananas today.

Bananas are the perfect food to eat while you drive to work, but beware of the looks you get from the men in their trucks. I had banana #2 with vanilla ice cream, strawberries and chopped peanuts in the botanical gardens. I wanted to kick myself when I realized how quick the walk is from my office to the botanical gardens. It’s a great place for a lunch break or an ice cream social with the students in the PEERS program. There were left over bananas and I took one with me. I got hungry while I was working and ate banana #3 at my desk.

Me encantan las bananas… but please don’t spell it out.

The elevator opened up on the third floor and I ran into Eric and another student. “Hi,” I said, caught a little offguard.

“Hey,” Eric responded. A long time ago, he was a mocoso first year fresh out of high school. Now he’s still mocoso, but he’s in his fourth year and will be graduating soon. “Whoa, you look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t,” I said. I had actually just left campus an hour earlier to go home, shower and change and return without even taking a short nap in time for a meeting and my last class.

That’s what last week was like. I stayed up all night, and all day. I saw more of my laptop than my roommate (she thinks I’m moving out or something). I even wrote while I was sitting in traffic and el Venado drove. The week sucked, but I let it get like that so I can’t blame anyone by myself.

By Friday around 6:30, I was done with everything. The paper and research proposal were in, I had presented each in class, and had attended the final meetings for the quarter of my Research Apprenticeship Courses (RACs). The official finals week had yet to begin and I was done. It felt nice.

I spent some time with el Venado on Friday evening and the next day I went home to Hacienda Heights. My Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni were the only ones there. They had just returned from visiting one of my aunts and were wondering about the rest of the missing familia. Dad, Danny and Adrian were out golfing. Lori was at work. Mom was shopping in preparation for the Virgen de Guadalupe festivities. I lef the quiet and nicely decorated house and took VR for a walk. I left again to go get my eyebrow and upper lip waxed but not without first telling my grandfather where I was going.

“Papá Chepe, ahorita regreso. Voy a quitarme las cejas,” I told him. (I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get my eyebrows waxed.)

“No, no te las quites. Te van a dejar muy pelona, te ves bien,” he told me. (No, don’t take them out. They’re going to leave them too bald, you look fine.)

I gotta love my Papá Chepe. I didn’t listen anyway, and instead went through the semi-torturous experience of getting my upper lip and eyebrows waxed (ow, ow, ow!). I returned to the house with puffy eyebrows and returned to my draft and began working on a piece on la Virgen de Guadalupe (see blogging.la). Soon after the house filled up with people again and my mom began cooking tacos de papa for Danny’s birthday. She pulled me away from my writing and conversation with el Venado.

“Se te van a enfriar los tacos” she reminded me for the third time. (Your tacos are going to get cold).

“Okay, I’m going, I’m going,” I yelled for the third time, but with more sincerity.

“Hey, I need to go eat,” I told el Venado. “We’re having tacos de papa for Danny’s birthday.”

“Oh no! You cut up poor VR [also known as Papas] to make tacos?!” he asked incredulously.

“No, dork.”

I swear, he’s usually not that corny.