For some people, the scent of meat and lard brings me to mind.
I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere, but damned if I can find it.
Weeks ago, I'd run into a friend who'd rushed to tell me about a taqueria he'd stumbled on while in search of a beer.
The place didn't serve alcohol, but the smells, while repugnant to him as a devout vegan, reminded him of me.
Why me, of all his flesh-loving friends, I have no idea.
But he was so excited for me to try it that he'd written down the name and a nearby business for a frame of reference.
I put it on my to-eat list and went about my business.
Out on my walk last week, he spotted me on Leigh Street as he began to bike across the intersection.
Riding over, he didn't even say hello, just, "Have you been to Tako Nako yet?"
Answering in the negative, I could see the disappointment on his face.
I'll move it up to the top of my list, I promised.
So on this sticky day, I turned my car in the direction of the southside to satisfy him and have lunch.
The guy at the counter inside the little green building had a basic grasp of English and I conveyed my taco choices in my language, not his.
Tongue, cow head and Chorizo, a mere dollar each.
Did I want onions on them was his only question.
He did look a little surprised when I said I'd be eating in, but the air conditioning felt wonderful and there were plenty of tables, so why not have an immersive experience?
I picked up the Tidewater Hispanic News, not that I read Spanish, but to see what I could glean.
Seems the White House has put in solar panels, not tough to decipher given that those two words apparently don't have a Spanish equivalent.
The big screen was set to a Mexican soap opera and some impassioned, dark-eyed, curly-haired man was repeatedly professing, "Ti amore!" to the comatose blond in the hospital bed.
And speaking of blonds, fully three quarters of the actresses in the show were fair-haired. It seemed a bit odd.
My food was delivered on a tray complete with two grocery store napkins sporting a strawberry design.
All three tacos were tasty. It may have been my first cabeza, Chorizo's always a no-brainer, but I'm a sucker for lengua so I saved the best for last.
When I got up to leave, I saw that the order-taker was deeply engrossed in the soap, so I dumped my debris and made for the door.
"Come back again!" he called, looking up momentarily from the drama.
Maybe. A $3.15 lunch is hard to beat, although it's a bit off the beaten path for me.
But now I can give a full report to the man who hasn't eaten meat since before I met him.
The things I'll do for a friend.
Showing posts with label chorizo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chorizo. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Monday, February 1, 2010
Plaza Mexico and Baseball
Tonight was all about making up for what I missed out on because of the snow.
Saturday, after the great James River Dip spectacle, here, my friend had asked what I wanted for lunch and, without hesitation, I'd said I was in the mood for Mexican.
It probably had to do with the damp and the cold, but I wanted something cheesy and rich.
But so many restaurants were closed and given how many stuck vehicles we were seeing, we didn't want to drive around endlessly for the sake of nachos, so we settled for the Village.
My delayed gratification was rewarded tonight at Plaza Mexico where a friend and I enjoyed a better than average Mexican meal, although the ambiance of the place leaves a lot to be desired.
The TVs blaring Mexican programming were so incredibly loud we had to request that they be turned down so our heads didn't explode.
The extent of the transformation from Cirrus to Plaza Mexico seems to have consisted of adding tacky banners and beer ads, but I think that's what passes for atmosphere in a lot of Mexican places, so we noted and accepted it for what it was.
I got the guacamole salad and Chorizo quesadillas and he got the Sopes and Chile Rellenos.
I liked how thick with Chorizo my dish was and the guacamole had a plenty of heat.
I wasn't familiar with sopes, but was intrigued by the thick corn (ground maize?) base holding the chicken, green cabbage, cheese and sauce; the serving included three of these monsters and my manly friend could only finish one; they were big as well as thick.
He was pleased that there was no mystery meat in the chili rellenos as that's a pet peeve of his.
We split up after dinner (but not before he referred to me as both Mary Poppins and Pollyanna) and I headed to the Firehouse for the 8th Annual Festival of New American Plays.
Every year, they take months to review and ultimately choose two plays to do staged readings of and have the audience vote on their favorite.
Tonight's performance was originally scheduled for Saturday night, but, like everything else in RVA except for selected wining and dining, was cancelled that evening.
American Pastime by Mike Folie was the evening's offering and it was based on a lawsuit against Major League Baseball filed by black players trying to escape lifetime contracts and become free agents.
There were eight actors doing the reading, including local legends Ford Flannagan and Joe Inscoe, but the entire cast was strong. I know some people don't enjoy a staged reading because, well it's just that.
No scenery, sets or much movement, but with a solid cast, an enjoyable way to experience theater nonetheless.
And at only a $5 donation, affordable for the masses.
I'm no fan of baseball, or any sport for that matter, but the story of the treatment of players, and especially blacks, back in the '50s and '60s and the changes they ultimately brought about to benefit players of all ethnicities, was an interesting slice of cultural history.
It just hasn't been that long since it was such a different world.
And, of course, there was romance; the guy ultimately wins the girl at the end.
Ah, love.
Actually, according to the play the two things nearest and dearest to a man's heart are sex and baseball, but hopefully the sex comes with the love.
Because I hadn't seen the other play, The Jag by Gino DiIorio, I wasn't eligible to vote tonight for the best New American Play.
I can't complain, though; I enjoyed a compelling night of affordable theater on a Monday night.
It's just too bad more people weren't there to enjoy it with me.
Saturday, after the great James River Dip spectacle, here, my friend had asked what I wanted for lunch and, without hesitation, I'd said I was in the mood for Mexican.
It probably had to do with the damp and the cold, but I wanted something cheesy and rich.
But so many restaurants were closed and given how many stuck vehicles we were seeing, we didn't want to drive around endlessly for the sake of nachos, so we settled for the Village.
My delayed gratification was rewarded tonight at Plaza Mexico where a friend and I enjoyed a better than average Mexican meal, although the ambiance of the place leaves a lot to be desired.
The TVs blaring Mexican programming were so incredibly loud we had to request that they be turned down so our heads didn't explode.
The extent of the transformation from Cirrus to Plaza Mexico seems to have consisted of adding tacky banners and beer ads, but I think that's what passes for atmosphere in a lot of Mexican places, so we noted and accepted it for what it was.
I got the guacamole salad and Chorizo quesadillas and he got the Sopes and Chile Rellenos.
I liked how thick with Chorizo my dish was and the guacamole had a plenty of heat.
I wasn't familiar with sopes, but was intrigued by the thick corn (ground maize?) base holding the chicken, green cabbage, cheese and sauce; the serving included three of these monsters and my manly friend could only finish one; they were big as well as thick.
He was pleased that there was no mystery meat in the chili rellenos as that's a pet peeve of his.
We split up after dinner (but not before he referred to me as both Mary Poppins and Pollyanna) and I headed to the Firehouse for the 8th Annual Festival of New American Plays.
Every year, they take months to review and ultimately choose two plays to do staged readings of and have the audience vote on their favorite.
Tonight's performance was originally scheduled for Saturday night, but, like everything else in RVA except for selected wining and dining, was cancelled that evening.
American Pastime by Mike Folie was the evening's offering and it was based on a lawsuit against Major League Baseball filed by black players trying to escape lifetime contracts and become free agents.
There were eight actors doing the reading, including local legends Ford Flannagan and Joe Inscoe, but the entire cast was strong. I know some people don't enjoy a staged reading because, well it's just that.
No scenery, sets or much movement, but with a solid cast, an enjoyable way to experience theater nonetheless.
And at only a $5 donation, affordable for the masses.
I'm no fan of baseball, or any sport for that matter, but the story of the treatment of players, and especially blacks, back in the '50s and '60s and the changes they ultimately brought about to benefit players of all ethnicities, was an interesting slice of cultural history.
It just hasn't been that long since it was such a different world.
And, of course, there was romance; the guy ultimately wins the girl at the end.
Ah, love.
Actually, according to the play the two things nearest and dearest to a man's heart are sex and baseball, but hopefully the sex comes with the love.
Because I hadn't seen the other play, The Jag by Gino DiIorio, I wasn't eligible to vote tonight for the best New American Play.
I can't complain, though; I enjoyed a compelling night of affordable theater on a Monday night.
It's just too bad more people weren't there to enjoy it with me.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Pig Three Ways at Kuba Kuba
In all the many years I've been going to Kuba Kuba, I have gotten the exact same dish every single time (the mussels in Tasso ham and cilantro broth).
It's not just that I've been called a creature of habit, but it's such a wonderful combination of flavors that I was sure I'd regret not ordering it, so I just always did.
On one occasion when I ate there alone and didn't mention it to my then-boyfriend, George, I was found out.
The next day we were out taking a walk together in the hot sun and he started sniffing me.
"You went to Kuba Kuba last night, didn't you? I can smell it in your sweat." Such is the distinctive flavor of that dish.
Why do I tell you this?
Because at lunch today at Kuba Kuba I ignored the mussels and had the Kubanaso sandwich, consisting of Roasted Pork, Smithfield Ham, Chorizo, Swiss cheese, pickles and mustard on hot pressed Kuban bread.
I know, I know, not very mussels-like, but huge, filling and with enough varieties of pig to satisfy a much bigger person than me.
So good, in fact, that I didn't give those mussels a second thought.
Naturally, I chose the bar stool nearest the kitchen to watch the action and was rewarded with conversational cooks.
The three of us were at a loss as to why it wasn't busier.
I was told that Fridays are always busy, rain guarantees a busier than usual lunch and yet there were at least six empty tables and four bar stools free when I arrived at 12:30, normally prime time.
It worked out well for me because I got plenty of talk from these guys, while watching them effortlessly turn out food.
As it turned out, I also had a direct connection when one of them insisted on taking my order, completely bypassing my server.
When he was plating my sandwich, though, two of the sections of it collapsed on the way to the plate.
He looked sheepish about it, so I reassured him that I was the last person to care about something so inconsequential. He handed it over with an enormous smile on his face.
I'm guessing he enjoyed the company, too, because as I was leaving, he said, "Have a good day, Beautiful."
That was my dessert.
It's not just that I've been called a creature of habit, but it's such a wonderful combination of flavors that I was sure I'd regret not ordering it, so I just always did.
On one occasion when I ate there alone and didn't mention it to my then-boyfriend, George, I was found out.
The next day we were out taking a walk together in the hot sun and he started sniffing me.
"You went to Kuba Kuba last night, didn't you? I can smell it in your sweat." Such is the distinctive flavor of that dish.
Why do I tell you this?
Because at lunch today at Kuba Kuba I ignored the mussels and had the Kubanaso sandwich, consisting of Roasted Pork, Smithfield Ham, Chorizo, Swiss cheese, pickles and mustard on hot pressed Kuban bread.
I know, I know, not very mussels-like, but huge, filling and with enough varieties of pig to satisfy a much bigger person than me.
So good, in fact, that I didn't give those mussels a second thought.
Naturally, I chose the bar stool nearest the kitchen to watch the action and was rewarded with conversational cooks.
The three of us were at a loss as to why it wasn't busier.
I was told that Fridays are always busy, rain guarantees a busier than usual lunch and yet there were at least six empty tables and four bar stools free when I arrived at 12:30, normally prime time.
It worked out well for me because I got plenty of talk from these guys, while watching them effortlessly turn out food.
As it turned out, I also had a direct connection when one of them insisted on taking my order, completely bypassing my server.
When he was plating my sandwich, though, two of the sections of it collapsed on the way to the plate.
He looked sheepish about it, so I reassured him that I was the last person to care about something so inconsequential. He handed it over with an enormous smile on his face.
I'm guessing he enjoyed the company, too, because as I was leaving, he said, "Have a good day, Beautiful."
That was my dessert.
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