During a conversation with a couple of my coworkers yesterday, as conversations often go with me, our conversation found its way to the topic food. In this specific instance, the topic was Mexican food. I am not a person who identifies specifically with any one culture and I have something approaching zero knowledge of my ancestry or heritage. Yet growing up in the Southwestern United States, working with several first generation Mexican immigrants in my youth, and having traveled extensively through Mexico (no, not just the Mayan Riviera) in my lifetime, the Mexican culture and cuisine holds a special place in my heart. Were I to be able to choose a final meal that I could enjoy fresh, warm flour tortillas and mesquite grilled chicken would have to be part of the menu.
As my coworkers and I were discussing this most cherished of cuisines (in my mind at least) I could not help but share one of my fondest memories of Mexican food. Immediately after college, I lived and worked in Long Beach, CA for a few years. Returning home with a friend one weekend afternoon, we found ourselves driving by the industrial area in Wilmington when we spotted the tattered cardboard sign proclaiming in bold sharpie "Fresh Pollo Asado." I recall telling my friend, "that sounds delicious. We should definitely stop and get some of that," as I continued driving by. A baffled look washed over him as he watched me continue driving past the sign and the smell of mesquite smoke. "So, why aren't we stopping?" Though more introspective in nature, my look of puzzlement matched his as I whipped the car around in the middle of the street and proceeded to park next to a rusty old steel sided warehouse.
That smell we'd driven by earlier welcomed us as we approached the chef de cuisine. His kitchen was an ice chest and an old steel metal drum he'd transformed into an open flame barbecue. A rack of approximately a dozen flattened chickens were tilted over the split drum to catch the heat and smoke from the open flame. He had but one seasoning, good ol' Lawry's seasoning salt and he used it to perfection, not allowing it to overwhelm but to subtly compliment his open fire cooking technique. "Un pollo asado por favor!" was our order. "Si," his reply as he hurriedly washed his hands with pink dish soap in a bucket of soot black water. Lucky for us, not many health inspectors made it out to this humble restaurant. With four swift thwacks of a cleaver, our pollo was quartered and bagged. Served with 4 fresh made flour tortillas, a hot bag of BBQ'd beans, a cold bag of fresh made salsa we were sent on our way, only 7 dollars lighter in our pockets.
I've since dined at some of the finest establishments North America has to offer, complete with multiple Michelin Starred restaurants and the tasting menus of celebrity chefs. Yet this meal is one that sticks out in my mind as one of my all time favorites. At its core, food is about sustenance and survival. At its most primal, it involves the simple manipulation and preparation of the most readily available ingredients. This meal embodied all of that. The chef of this restaurant, who's name I regretfully did not request, was passing the traditions and techniques of his ancestry and native land to us in a Styrofoam box. The meal was raw and soulful. It's ingredients simple yet vibrant on the plate and out of bag. And as the smoked juices of chicken and salsa ran down out of the tortilla and onto our cheeks and hands, the warmth of that meal was evident in our smiles, smiles that closely resembled the warmth and exuberance of the chef at "Fresh Pollo Asado."
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