Tough Times

It's very difficult to maintain a comfortable level of curmudgeonly displeasure at this time of year. When the hellish heat of summer gives way to the mild days of autumn, it's hard to bitch about the weather. When the rain comes down in buckets after so long and unremitting a drought, it's hard to gripe about the leak in the living room ceiling. When the parched dead earth springs at last into its jungle mode, it's difficult to acheive the proper degree of irritation about yard work. When the English Premier League season is in full swing, it's hard to be upset about every game Liverpool loses. When the few television shows we find worth watching start their new seasons, it's hard to focus on the near-total dearth of intelligent writing coming out of Hollywood. (Or London; we like British mysteries too.) And when it's cool and clear and beautiful like today and yesterday and the day before, it's hard to be too upset about the fact that I really have nowhere to go with the top down.

Yes, autumn in South Texas is a difficult time for curmudgeons. I grouse about having to replace some damn sensor in the Jaguar's engine, but my heart isn't in it. Liverpool loses to Sunderland -- Sunderland! -- and I can't really hold the requisite grudge. I make an effort to be unhappy about the weeds in the front garden, and the amazing fungi that sprout so suddenly, but I just can't sustain it. A mediocre episode of The Big Bang Theory fails to support my unhappiness, and even the ceaseless farce of Legislative, Executive and Judicial branches can only momentarily infest my psyche.

O! how I long for the winter! The short, dark days, when it seems no pleasant thing can take place. Those are the times when my cold curmudgeonly heart can truly come alive!

Musings on the dire taqueria situation: Thousand Oaks Cafe

This problem with the lack of good taco places in the suburbs continues to concern me. The other day ... maybe it was yesterday, I don't know: the days all seem the same when there are no good breakfast tacos readily available. Anyway, it occured to me, as I drove along Thousand Oaks Drive from 281 to Perrin-Beitel (to be disappointed yet again, this time at the Thousand Oaks Cafe, where mediocre food is served up by a resolutely unhappy waiter, in a setting that takes ordinary one step farther down the scale of quality), that there has to be some correlation between the age of development in an area and the dearth of quality Mexican food.

And by "quality" Mexican food, I mean, of course, Tex-Mex served in a family-owned business, with mamacita or abuelita in the kitchen, overseeing everything. Nothing less will do.

Where I live, in the old part of town -- my house was in a far-flung suburb back in the 1930s, about two miles from the Alamo -- excellent taquerias are thick on the ground. Outside of Loop 410, where few things existed before the British Invasion, and most things are no older than Hannah Montana, there are almost none. Oh, plenty of restaurants, sure: a few national or regional chains, and fast-food on every corner, some if it even purporting to be of the Mexican variety. Almost every major intersection has two or three strip centers, and every one of them has a restaurant of some kind in it.

Therein, I suspect, lies the problem: I'll just bet you that every one of those chain restaurants has an exclusivity clause in its lease, so that the landlord cannot rent to another restaurant business. This, if it is in fact the case, would tend to squeeze out the family restaurants, because exclusivity has a cost, and the family places, unless they're already established somewhere else, probably can't or won't pay the higher rates the landlord can claim from the chains.

Now, you understand that I don't object to this arrangement on principle. I'm something of a limited-capitalist myself, and it seems a valid working of the market to have these sorts of arrangements. And they only ensure limitation of competition within the strip center; there'll be another lousy restaurant across the street.

No, I decry the result because of the damage it does to the general public: most newcomers to San Antonio settle in those cookie-cutter suburbs that define Loopland, where seldom is heard a discouraging word (and if one is heard, it would have to be "traffic"). They live their lives in these same vapid environs, occasionally straying down a freeway to the Loop itself, or maybe even as far as downtown or the Quarry; and they are simply not exposed to the greatest culinary tradition this wonderful city has to offer. They grow up thinking that Taco Cabana is Mexican food. Or worse.

Years from now, when they're telling people about growing up in San Antonio, they'll sigh and nod and say, "Yeah...it was okay."

And the city will suffer.

Thousand Oaks Cafe

Chilaquiles For Dummies and Aficionados

Chilaquiles are the best breakfast food In The Whole World. I've tried them from Morelia to Midland, and while there are probably a dozen significant variations in the recipe, they're almost all good -- even the kind that looked like tomato soup that I had at a house in Monterrey once.

The exception seems to be in the far northern parts of San Antonio. I don't know, the infestation of lousy chilaquiles may extend beyond, even to Comal and Guadalupe counties, but in the past few months I've embarked on a quest to find decent chilaquiles in that part of town, and have failed repeatedly. The latest disappointment is Zarazua's, on Sunset. This place has been around in one form or another for about 35 years, according to an old advertising calendar on the wall, yet somehow they've not mastered the essential art of chilaquiles. Theirs consist of small chips of corn tortilla, lightly fried and then smothered in plain ol' scrambled eggs. Boring.

I suspect that the people who own mom-and-pop Mexican restaurants in that area are losing that bit of their heritage, a tragedy that I feel compelled to try to avert, to whatever poor extent I can. Maybe they didn't grow up eating chilaquiles; maybe their people were from a part of Mexico that lacked some ingredient (that's hard to believe) or maybe their moms and abuelas just thought it was too much trouble to make (that's even harder to believe). I just don't know.

But what can I, a poor consumer of this delectable creation, and an Anglo to boot, do to stem the withering of Mexican culture? I would prefer not to go into the kitchens of north-east San Antonio and lecture cooks on how this dish is supposed to appear, feel and taste.

No, all I can think of to do is to post, for the perusal of cocineros anywhere, the recipe that I use myself when I make chilaquiles. This is easy for me, since I happen to have written it down a couple of years ago for some friends in Toronto, and I have it here on my computer:

Chilaquiles a la moda potosina

(Chilaquiles in the style of San Luis Potosí)

½ tsp cooking oil
1 corn tortilla, shredded
1 jalapeño pepper, seeded & chopped
½ green bell pepper, chopped
½ red bell pepper, chopped (optional)
½ onion, chopped
½ tomato, seeded & chopped
4 eggs*
black pepper to taste
salt to taste (optional)
pinch of chile powder (optional)
shredded cheese (cheddar, colby, or jack, or a blend)
4 flour tortillas
salsa

* egg substitute can be used in place of one, two, or three of the eggs. The flavour will be only slightly less intense; the appearance, consistency and texture will be unaffected. If plain egg whites are used, the colour will suffer.

a note on quantities: this recipe serves 2 people. For larger batches just increase the quantities in proportion. As with all really good recipes, the quantities of the ingredients are approximate, and flexible. Experiment with it, looking for tweaks that suit your own preferences.

Heat the oil over medium-high heat in a medium-sized skillet. Toss in the shredded corn tortilla and let it fry, stirring. It will cook quickly, so pay close attention. When it starts to brown on the edges, toss in the peppers, onion, and tomato. If you want your chilaquiles a little spicier, throw in the chile powder too. Saute until tender, about 3 minutes, stirring frequently.

Meanwhile, whisk the eggs (or egg substitute) and pepper, and salt if desired, in a bowl. Pour over the vegetables in the skillet and reduce the heat to the low side of medium. Let that cook, stirring occasionally to keep it from burning on the bottom, until the eggs are set to your satisfaction.

While that cooks, heat the flour tortillas on the stove burners, being careful not to let them burn. Stack them on a plate and cover with a towel.

Sprinkle the cheese over the egg and vegetable mix and turn off the heat. Stir in the cheese, spoon the mixture onto a platter, and serve with flour tortillas, and salsa on the side.

There: that's all I can do, I think, short of causing scenes in kitchens all across the suburbs.

Zarazua's

Return of the Purple Garlic

The title of Best Pizza In Town is back where it belongs, on Austin Highway at Rittiman Road. And no, I don't mean the Pizza Hut there, I mean the place next door, the revived Purple Garlic.

The place started, the first time, years ago, maybe in the early 90's? I don't know; we discovered it one Thursday night (I don't actually remember that, but we used to have a group called the Thursday Night Supper Club, so it stands to reason), and tried it, and really liked it. Maybe they use a little garlic in the crust; I'm going to say that's what it is, but there has to be more to it than that.

Over the next few years I think I tried about every combination they offered, and loved them all. The pizzas are all thin-crust, none of that faddish deep-dish stuff for these people. And unlike every other pizza place I've ever been to more than once or twice, the pizza at the Purple Garlic was perfect every single time.

Then, tragedy struck. The owner got divorced. Apparently -- this is what I heard, anyway -- she got the business and the name, but he kept the recipes. (I'm guessing that the recipes were his before they got married.) She kept the place open for a while, but it was no good. We tried it a couple of times then, and stopped going. Then, a year or two later, we heard the place had re-opened out in the 'burbs; we tried it there, but apparently (again, I don't really remember) it wasn't worth the drive. We took our business to Volare's, on Broadway in Alamo Heights, which was very good pizza, and which would usually deliver to our house, sometimes without argument. But Volare's prices went up a couple of times, and the shop changed hands, and things were just never as good as before. Where we used to get pizza 3 or 4 times a month, we stopped eating it altogether.

Years passed, and then we both discovered, independently but at about the same time, that the Purple Garlic was suddenly back in its old location, next door to Pizza Hut (which drains off all the customers who wouldn't know a decent pizza if it was wrapped around their faces, still hot from the oven). Can this be, we wondered, the real Purple Garlic, restored to life after its long illness?

Why, yes it can! And it is, it is! Mark Cerroni, the man with the secret recipes, has bought the name back from his ex-wife, and re-opened in the same place he used to operate. He has a partner this time, a familiar-looking man whose name has slipped my mind. The partner seems to be the house oenophile, and he plays the role of Public Face, greeting the customers and checking on how things are, working the room in a casual, friendly, informal way, putting everyone into a mellow mood; kind of like your Aunt Mary during family get-togethers, but without the scolding.

They've opted, this time, for a cross between table service and counter service: they give you a menu, you take it to your table, decide what you want, then place your order at the counter. They bring it out to you. With the wine stash off to one side, and the fountain drinks off to the other, and people generally uncertain about the logistics of ordering, it makes for a little confusion at the register. I reckon they'll work that out in time. But otherwise, it's great having the Garlic back where it belongs.

Purple Garlic