The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Archives for January 2010

Goodbye Bombay, hello ashram

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I’m off in about 15 minutes to the airport, for a flight bound for Madurai. From there I’ll take a three-hour taxi to Kodaikanal, and then a short jaunt up into the hills, to the ashram and my new home for the next 14 days. I won’t have Internet access except for Fridays, when we’re allowed to travel into the city. So this is goodbye for now, I guess.

Crayton will be guest-posting in the next few days… wonder if he’ll talk about Hooters again? (Just kidding honey, you talk about whatever you want. As long as it doesn’t have to do with camels and butt-soreness.)

I’m tired, and still getting over a nasty cold, but I’m excited about what lies ahead. Can’t wait to come back and share everything with you all.

Un beso,
L

Forts, camel safaris, and our arrival in Mumbai

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I can’t believe it’s all already almost over. Crayton heads back to the States in a few days, and I head to Madurai for the ashram. We’ve squeezed in as much as humanly possible over the past week — monkeys, camels, long car rides, strolls through 15th century forts. We ate Rajasthani food, comprising meat and vegetables in thick curried sauces, and a shredded type of green bean with capers. We camped out in the desert for a night outside Jaisalmer and slept under the stars.

Right now we’re both nursing sore throats — Crayton actually has a full-blown cold — so that’s probably a sign that we’ve done too much. (Don’t worry, parents, we have medicine and we’re fine.)

We arrived to Mumbai on Thursday afternoon, and so far I really like it here. It doesn’t seem as polluted, with the sea so close. And the water just makes everything feel… chill. Added plus: there are no car and bus horns waking me up at 6 in the morning, like there was in Delhi. Although I miss the funny blurping city bus horns.

Today we had dosas for breakfast, a South Indian specialty that’s a type of tube made of crunchy, thin rice flour, stuffed with various fillings. Then we wandered around the Colaba area and shopped. I bought a shameless amount of items at Fabindia. Later we had drinks at Dome, a bar overlooking the sea, and then more seafood for dinner. Dessert: Green chili ice cream from Bachelorr’s, a roadside stand off Marine Drive. It tasted like a roasted serrano dunked in cold cream.

A few shots for your viewing pleasure…

One of the massive walls of Nahargarh Fort in Jaipur, built in 1734

Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur, the foundation of which was laid in 1459.

Camel safari outside Jaisalmer…

”Monkeys

Bombay…

A cab in Bombay, with an upscale neighborhood's name emblazoned on the back

A few shots from India….

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It’s been a crazy past five days. We’ve visited three cities — Delhi, Jaipur and Agra — and are on our way to a fourth, Jodhpur. I’ve eaten about a dozen pieces of naan, steaming and crispy from a tandoor oven, and I’ve fallen in love with aloo paratha, thin potato pancakes we’ve had twice for breakfast. You slather them with butter, break of a piece, and use it to scoop up some yogurt. Utterly fabulous.

I’ve got a few minutes before we board, so here are a few shots…

Those potato parathas, made by the house servant at our homestay in Delhi…

Balls of naan, ready to be baked in a clay oven, outside of a restaurant in Jaipur.

A vegetarian thali from that same restaurant…

Off to India!

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I’ve mentioned this on the blog a few times, but tomorrow I’m off to India for entire month.

A month.

This is the longest trip I’ve taken since… well, since I studied abroad in college. Crayton and I will be in Rajasthan for about 7 days — Jaipur, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Agra — and then Mumbai for three days. Then he’s coming home, and I’m trekking south to Tamil Nadu to study yoga and meditation for two weeks in an ashram. It’s going to be scary, chaotic, sleepless, and absolutely fantastic.

I do plan to blog while I’m there, but posting will be lighter than usual. Crayton also plans to do a few guest posts while I’m at the ashram and can’t blog anything at all. I really don’t know what I’m going to do without an Internet connection. (You will breathe, Lesley.)

I planned to have all of these fabulous blog posts ready for you over the next few days, but alas, it didn’t work out. l’ll miss you guys. I’ll be back Feb. 16 — in the meantime, les mando un besito y un abrazo fuerte!

*Photo by Palani Mohan for National Geographic Traveler

The neighborhood pan dulce guy

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Every morning at 7 a.m., we hear a loud, screechy bicycle horn honking right outside our window. It sounds like this:

Originally, I had no idea what this horn meant. Then I checked the Internet and realized it was a neighborhood vendor selling pan dulce. Of course! Every service-provider has his own sound here — the trash man with his bell; the gas guy who yells “Gaaaas!”; the camote guy whose little cart sounds like a teakettle that’s about to explode.

I’ve been wanting to run down and meet the bread guy for months, but I’m never awake and lucid by 7. Today, the stars finally aligned. Crayton had gotten up at 6:30 because he has the early shift this week. I’d been tossing since 5:30, thinking about India, my writing project, this blog, and whether I might be able to squeeze in a haircut today.

At 6:30, I got up with Crayton and made some tea. I put on tennis shoes and a fleece, because it’s freaking cold in my house. Then I walked to my desk and realized: Holy god, it’s 6:45 a.m. and I am completely dressed and ready to meet the pan dulce guy! I excitedly Twittered about it. Then I put my camera, my tape recorder, and some change in my pockets. (The fleece happened to have pockets, another sign from God.)

Then I waited.

At about 7:02, I heard a faint honking sound.

eee-eee. eeee-eeee.

I flew out the door. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, though, the sound had disappeared. I stared out the window and thought, a little sadly: “Maybe he’s not coming today.”

So I walked back up to my apartment and puttered around. Checked email. Sipped my tea.

At about 7:08, the sound came again, but stronger this time.

eee-EEEE eeee-EEEE eeee-EEEE

I wasn’t expecting to hear it. I ran out the door holding the waistband of my flannel PJs, which were loose and about to fall down. Immediately outside my door, and a little to the left, was the bread vendor: a young man of about 25, sitting on a bicycle outfitted with a large, gingham-lined basket. My flour-filled pretties sat inside.

The man looked at me kind of funny, because I was the only person outside in pajamas. But he didn’t say anything except “Buenos días.” I tried to act professional and said, “Buenos días” back. But inside, I wanted to shout to everyone walking by, “I FOUND THE PAN DULCE GUY!”

With a dumb grin on my face, I picked out a chocolate concha and a bisquet; a knobby, rounded piece of bread covered in sugar called an “español,” and a muffin. (Normally I wouldn’t have bought so much, but I was on a high.) He placed everything in a blue plastic grocery bag and handed it to me.

“Este….” I said. Este is the Spanish word for “um.”

“Sí?”

“Este…. le molesta si tomo un foto del pan?” Do you mind if I take a picture of the bread?

He smiled and said he didn’t mind.

I pulled out my camera from my fleece… and promptly discovered that the battery was dead. Oh, crap. I could not miss this opportunity. This was the actual pan dulce guy, standing right here in front of me. I had to have visual evidence of our encounter.

So I asked if he minded if I went up to my apartment real quick for my other camera.

“Are you going to be long?” he asked.

“Oh no,” I said. “I live right here.” I pointed.

He nodded, and I took off running to my apartment, where I rushed up the stairs, holding my pants, and unlocked the door and grabbed my iPhone. Fifteen seconds later I was back downstairs, standing in front of the basket. I took a few photos and recorded his horn. He told me the bread comes from a bakery near Tacuba, one of the Metro stations in the Centro.

“Anytime you need bread, I’m here,” he said. Then he took off on his bicycle, honking his horn the whole way.

As a postscript: The concha was very good. Not Bondy quality, but up there.

Lentils, and I’m still alive

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I’ve been a little overwhelmed lately.

In the past week, I have: Worked nearly 7 hours a day on an intense writing project; attempted to clean and grocery shop and see my husband; tried to prepare for our upcoming trip to India, and failed, and begged Crayton to plan the whole thing by himself; attempted to plan our visit from my in-laws, who arrive tomorrow, and lastly, thought deeply about whether we want to stay in our apartment for another year.

I am kind of going insane. Today, just for fun (because I had two minutes allotted for “fun”), I thought about what feast I’d prepare to calm myself down, if I had all the money and time in the world. I looked through my photos of tacos and tostadas and salads, and a picture of these absolutely kick-ass esquites we ordered recently at La Capital in Condesa. I was planning to write a post on my Top 5 Most Relaxing Foods. But do you know what I remembered? Lentils with bacon. Made in a clay bean pot.

I whipped up a batch last Friday in a kind of half-frenzy, because I was working on this writing project, and Crayton and his friend Nick were coming over to watch the basketball game. They didn’t ask me to make anything, because they knew how busy I was. They were going to order pizza. But I couldn’t let them do that. A little voice in my head told me I had to prepare these lentils. These are the internal issues I hope to resolve while I’m meditating in an ashram in two weeks.

Anyway: The lentils turned out fabulous — kind of soupy, kind of not. I served them with crusty bread I’d warmed in the oven. Crayton and I have been eating the leftovers, happily, for almost a week. Today I had a bowl while sitting next to my space heater.

They’re so comforting and sloppy, and smoky from the bacon. Wish I could just keep eating them every few hours, to give me the peaceful zen I need to finish all my tasks.

How to handle stress is another thing I’m hoping to work on in the ashram.

Lentils with Bacon
Adapted from The Joy of Cooking
Serves a LOT

Note: I originally planned to make this with the lentils I had in my pantry, but when I unearthed the bag, I discovered they’d expired in 2008. EXPIRED in 2008, not even purchased then. Whoops. So I ordered some more from Superama online. Also, you can use deli-sliced ham or any variety of bacon, but I like using thick chunks of bacon that have been cut into smaller pieces. It’s so nice to stumble on a chunk of bacon when you’re eating this. It’s like stumbling on a peanut in the Cracker Jack box.

Ingredients

1 large onion (I used 1 medium sized onion, and a leek, because that’s what I had on hand)
3 garlic cloves, minced or pressed through garlic press
3 carrots, chopped
3 pieces of celery, chopped
1 to 2 thick slices bacon, chopped into bite-sized pieces
1 bag of lentils (about 2 heaping cups)
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 bay leaf
water

Heat a few glugs of olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet, or, if you wish, a 3 1/2- to 4-quart dutch oven. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in garlic and cook until aromatic, about 30 seconds to a minute. Add celery, carrots and bacon and cook until just tender, about 15 minutes. Gently pour this mixture into your clay bean pot, or keep everything where it is, if you’re already cooking in a dutch oven. Turn the heat to medium, and add lentils and water — about 8 cups, or as much as you think is necessary — and the thyme and bay leaf. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat to simmer and cook until lentils are tender. (This took me about 90 minutes to two hours.) Add more water if the lentils look too dry.

Serve with crusty bread and a cold beer.

Tacos de canasta, literally, “basket tacos”

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It took me awhile to warm up to tacos de canasta. They’re the soft, steamed tacos sold on the street, and they’re usually stacked in cloth-covered basket.

Unlike at the regular street taco stands, where the vendors are furiously chopping meat or dunking flautas in a fryer, nothing really happens at a tacos de canasta stand. A man, or woman, stands under an umbrella next to a basket. The end.

I didn’t try them for months, because the idea of eating food that’s been sitting in a basket all day sounded kinda gross. But then one day Alice mentioned that they were her favorite. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she described this specific tacos de canasta stand near the Chapultepec Metro. (“Oh my god, they are so good.”) I tried them for the first time shortly afterward, at a stand in Tlalpan.

I’d chosen an potato and rajas taco, and the vendor lifted up a section of the cloth and handed me an oily taco that looked nearly translucent in the middle. I was momentarily disappointed (is this going to taste like a mouthful of grease?) but then I bit into it. The potatoes and rajas had been stewed into this soft mixture that you barely had to chew. It was the taco equivalent of baby food. I loved it, because it was comforting and simple, and sometimes you need a break from all that chopped meat on the street.

I’ve eaten tacos de canasta a few more times since then. Last week, I finally visited La Abuela, a crowded tacos de canasta stand in my neighborhood. The vendor is an old man who wears a newsboy cap, and he stands underneath a red umbrella. He has this weathered, kind face, like the stereotypical grandfather character in the movies. Every time I walk by, I steal a glance at him and think: he’s so cute.

He’s not smiling here, but I promise, when he does, it’s kind of adorable.

La Abuela has a pretty extensive variety for a street stand. Crayton and I chose the frijol, papa, tinga, chicken with mole, and cochinita pibil.

All of them had been cooked in the way that I remembered: oily tortilla, stuffed with a soft, stewed filling.

The cochinita and the potato were the best — the former with just a slight whisper of spices, and the potatoes, mashed to smithereens so that they slid down your throat with this kind of slick earthiness. They reminded me of the potatoes my great-grandmother used to make. She would slice them and fry them in lard, and then let them drain on paper towels for hours and hours, until they were so soft you could practically mash them with a fork.

I would highly recommend La Abuela if you’re in the neighborhood. The stand is located at the corner of Rio Rhin and Rio Lerma in Col. Cuauhtémoc, and it’s open from 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily. La Abuela also has other branches around the city, and they offer home delivery, if you’re having a party.

If you’re interested in making your own tacos de canasta, this site has pretty extensive instructions, including recipes for various fillings and how to properly line your basket to keep the warmth in.

From the mamey files: licuado de mamey

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Two Sundays ago, one of the tianguis vendors suckered me into buying three mameys. I only wanted one. But he looked at me with these hangdog eyes and said, “Take two amiga. Por favor.”

Buying two was only five pesos more. It was like buying popcorn and a soda at the movies — supersize your combo for just a quarter extra. So I said fine: I’ll take two. He threw in a third for the same price.

A few days ago, I realized that I ever ate the darn things. I unearthed them from the refrigerator, and two had gone bad. But the other one was edible. I had been working at my computer since the morning and was in desperate need a pick-me-up, so I decided to make a licuado. Hard to believe I’ve never had a mamey licuado before, but it’s true. I hadn’t.

It ended up being the best mid-afternoon snack I’ve had in weeks. Thick and sweet like a milkshake, but without any ice cream at all. Just fruit and milk. The recipe is below. (If you want to call it that.)

I have to get back to work, but now my mind’s humming with all the other mamey possibilities. Mamey pudding… dairy-free mamey pudding… mamey mousse…

Mamey Licuado
Makes 1 serving

4.5 ounces of mamey, or about 1/2 cup
1 cup milk

Blend together until sufficiently pureed. Pour into a glass and serve.

Old-school fine dining in DF: Les Moustaches

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Crayton and I happen to live really close to Les Moustaches, a French restaurant that’s generally thought of as among the best in the city.

The menu harkens back to a time when butter-laden, meat heavy dishes defined elegance. It’s sprinkled with items that Roger Sterling would have loved — oysters rockefeller, beef bourguignon, beef wellington.

Chandeliers glitter inside, and a roaming violinist serenades the tables. This music is also piped outdoors through a set of speakers, so passersby can get a feel for the place. The street name is even written on the building in French: “Rue de Seine” instead of Rio Sena.

To Crayton and I, the whole upscale faux-French elegance thing seems a bit absurd. So instead of eating there, we usually joked about going.

Crayton: “Where do you want to eat dinner?”
Me: “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I made reservations at Les Moustaches. Beef Wellington, baby!”

Last week, Crayton was off work and he was sick of eating leftover bacalao. He proposed Les Moustaches for dinner, but serious this time. We did live around the corner from the place, and I liked the idea of a fancy date. So we went. I put on a blue-and-maroon striped dress I love, black heels and a fuchsia shawl. The walk took us less than five minutes.

We got a table easily, since the place was mostly empty. (More diners came later, after 8 p.m.) A waiter delivered the drink menu and the wine list, which was surprisingly reasonable. I’d expected the cheapest bottle to be around 900 pesos, or about $70. We ordered a 2006 Cotes Du Rhone for around 450 pesos, or about $35.

Waiters bustled around our table, whisking away the drink menus, dropping off the food menus, serving us bread. We chose the oysters, the wellington, and chicken kiev.

“I keep wanting to call you ‘Bets’,” Crayton said, referring to Betty Draper from Mad Men.

One of the waiters served the amuse-bouche, which was a sliced fig topped with what looked like a round ball of blue cheese.

“This is….?” I asked him.

“Fig,” the waiter said.

“Yes, I see it’s fig, but fig and… what else?”

“Cheese,” he said, and he rushed off.

Oo-kay.

The oysters arrived on a bed of rock salt and came with a tiny spoon, a tiny fork, and a flat, scalloped-edged spoon that I had no idea what to do with. Didn’t matter, because they were fantastic. Buttery and rich and topped in a thin crust of cheese. (Crayton later compared them to potato skins, but with oysters.) A waiter almost removed my plate before I was finished, but I stopped him with my hand. Must suck out every ounce of the buttery juices.

My chicken kiev and Crayton’s beef wellington arrived with stainless-steel, domed plate covers, just like you see in the movies. Two waiters removed them at the same time. I was waiting for someone to say “voilá” but no one did.

“Shall I cut your chicken?” the waiter asked me. “Because it’s filled with butter, they tend to explode if you cut them open too quickly.”

Of course, I told him.

My chicken…

Crayton’s beef. Apologies for the blurry iPhone photos.

The chicken was very good, soaked with buttery herb sauce. It wasn’t spectacular though, and I can’t point my finger on exactly why. It needed an extra zing. I wanted to swoon like Meryl Streep/Julia Child tasting the sole meuniere in Julie & Julia, but it didn’t happen.

Crayton’s beef wellington had been cooked to medium instead of medium rare; it tasted a wee bit too tough for his taste. The waiter hadn’t asked how he wanted it cooked, though, or mentioned that medium was the standard.

After such a rich meal, I wanted to skip dessert. But Crayton insisted on getting bananas foster.

“When are we ever going to get bananas foster again, in a place like this?”

“Never, and I’m okay with that,” I said.

I’m glad I gave in, because the presentation was cool. A waiter rolled over a cart draped in a white tablecloth, and lit the gas burner that had been placed on top. He added sugar and butter, then the liquor, and then the bananas. He served them over a scoop of vanilla ice cream, nestled in a martini glass.

Would I go back? Probably not. There are too many other restaurants to try in this city. The service could have been better, and the menu, to me, felt too old-fashioned for my taste.

If you’re in the mood to relive another era, though, it’s worth it. The prices aren’t outrageous for fine dining in Mexico City — my entree was under 200 pesos, and I don’t think Crayton’s was more than 250.

Les Moustaches
Rio Sena 88, Col. Cuauhtémoc
Located between Reforma and Rio Lerma
Phone: 55 33 33 90