With Chihuahua — really, more of a sorta torta, Latin American roots only tenuously tied by the just acceptable sauce thereon applied. Though that, too, is untrue to the tried and true, unless the definition is expanded to include anything on any sort of bread.
The fault for that, however — and possibly rambled on ad nauseum, previously, as the cognitively disfunctional tend to do — the fault lies with the very first torta ever tried, which was served on the appropriate roll, with fried avocado. And mole. It was such an amazing sandwich that it warranted driving half-way across the state for lunch — which was done once.
The return trip found that the mole had left the sandwich, served with no sauce of any kind! However, the request for a bit of mole was gratefully acknowledged without a missed beat, then, ruefully dismayed when what came returned, was just a small shot of thin, oily, red liquid, with little for flavor and not nearly enough heat for a properly sopped sandwich.
Perhaps the gentleman — the same for both times — assessed he was in company with vapid, dumb gringo, one seeking torta ahogada: More spice and more sauce, if that’s the case. When questioned if it was indeed mole, he responded dismissively. Perhaps he has acquiesced to local tastes. Perhaps the first time was a mistake — perhaps, a special item. We will return and sneak into the kitchen — to see if any mole remains. Because it was the best mole ever tried, and no recipe, or amount of tweaking has been able to equal the perfected balance of sweet and savory, spice an bitter; Sister Rosa’s comes close: Every drop was consumed.
One of the most beautiful people you could ever meet came in to the office earlier in the day — an older woman, who has lost a son, another that struggles mightily; her husband ran off to Florida long ago. She carries the most wonderful, unmitigable cheer, always sharing the positive, always seeking solutions to the negative — always talking. She hasn’t been able to drive for a while, but she still stops in every month, makes her daughters cart her around — she’s driving them nuts! I always make sure there’s a little chocolate on my desk when she stops in at the beginning of the month — she only wants simple things: The best for her children, a small treat here and there. She’s had nothing but struggle in the twenty years of our acquaintance, but never complained.
She prides herself on looking much younger than her age — indeed! — and one of the things she loved to do, was, once a week, head to a little bar down the way, and dance a little bit with the fellows that she met. If she — litterally — had a single extra dollar for the month, she’d buy herself a coke, as well.
Since she hasn’t been able to drive, that hasn’t been an option, though she aspires to drive again and return, maybe once… Twice — maybe even go every month! It’s a dive of a bar, one known only, because through the swinging doors from the bar, behind, once stood an incredibly, amazing Mexican restaurant. Every time she starts talking about the bar, memories return — Speedy burrito, anyone? The Don? Or, how about, their incredible mole enchilada!
Lingering thoughts last week brought a rather uninspired, yet inevitable mushrooms and pasta. Another night of fickle fancy eschewed dining out, carrying out and ended in a store. First, targeting Middle Eastern — only hummus. Then, frozen garbage: Eh… We just grabbed chihuahua — the thoughts lingered, of mole enchilada and the fantastical torta.
And so, once again, after hours of frothy remonstration, we ate dinner at 10 o’clock at night, put together this sandwich: Chihuahua — wonderful in certain applications. Mole — better in application than drunk straight. Seitan — deliciously salty with nice, bright, lemony impression. All on a buttered roll, pan toasted: Damn! That was good…