Best Chilaquiles? -- Marioli Meals To GOurmet

I was trolling through various blog posts by other foodies in San Antonio -- it's amazing how many of us there are -- when I came upon a comment that caught my eye. It was on a review of some Mexican, or maybe Tex-Mex, restaurant here in town, and a reader named Graciela had posted a comment that (after reciting as her bona fides that she was born and raised in Mexico City and has been in San Antonio for five years) included this statement: "Marioli in Stone Oak has the best chilaquiles you will ever eat." (I would provide a link to the comment, but now that I sit down to write this, I can't find it. I'm pretty sure it was on Under The [Dinner] Table, a blog I recommend, but a search came up empty.)

Well. I certainly cannot let that statement pass untested. And so, after a due amount of time, for reflection, and to gird myself for the venture waaaaaaaaaaay out into Ultra-Loopland, I set off, with my faithful sidekick Kato ... er, Rick ... to verify the report.

Marioli is actually Marioli Meals To GOurmet, a venture started by another Mexico City refugee, one Mariana Oliver, as a catering business with a deli shop on the ground floor. (The kitchen is upstairs.) Sadly, her dream of having a deli-slash-catering shop is fading, because her food is so good that the place is turning into a restaurant; customers insist, for some reason, on eating it, right there in the deli, and on doing so sitting down. So now the attractive interior has half a dozen tables, and half a dozen more adorn the entry plaza (on Tuscany Stone, just off Stone Oak Boulevard near 1604). 

On one side of the order station is a large case filled with ready-made entrées, all of which induce drool just to look at. I remember stuffed zucchini, cochinita pibil, enchiladas, and chiles rellenos, and there were at least as many others. On the other side are baked goods. Baked goods are my particular weakness, and I am trying to lose weight (I keep saying that, but nothing seems to happen), so I didn't look too closely; just enough to see cheesecake slices as big as Schilo's, three varieties of shortbread sandwich cookies, brownies cut in huge wedges, and a three-layered chocolate dessert the name of which escapes me at the moment. 

The menu is on boards hanging above the display cases. One refers to the prepared items available to go -- those in the first case, with prices by the pound or by the plate; a second gives prices and descriptions for the various sandwich options; another gives salad options; and the last, if I remember right, dealt with desserts. None of them offered chilaquiles. So I asked. Yes, they do make chilaquiles, but only on weekends. (This was on Thursday.) But since she had seen us waiting patiently outside for them to open, she said she would go ahead and make them for me. (It helped when I told her what I'd read on the internet and that I'd come to verify the statement.) Rick went for the club sandwich.

I think Rick is starting to regret going along with me on these epicurean quests, because whatever he gets, I insist he critique. He would be happy to say something is good, or bad, or in-between, but I want details. Details, damn it! What's the bread like? Are the ingredients fresh? How well are they prepared? What's the seasoning like? Usually he breaks down and offers me a sample, but sometimes my pestering him is ineffective. On this occasion, he finally did offer to let me try it, but by then I'd gathered sufficient information, so all I tried was the bread. On his report, the lettuce and tomato used were unusually fresh-tasting, the meats, particularly the ham, were excellent in both taste and texture, the mayonnaise was plentiful but not excessive, and the croissant on which the whole thing was served was buttery and fresh. I can attest to the last.

And my chilaquiles. 

As I've pointed out before in this blog, there are as many types of chilaquiles as there are distinct cuisines in Mexico. Most of the time, around here, "chilaquiles" means a dish made with scrambled eggs, onions, peppers, fried fragments of corn tortilla, and sometimes tomatoes. These chilaquiles were not of that type. These were chilaquiles in the style of Mexico City, and this is the first time I've found chilaquiles of this type outside Mexico City: tortillas cut in quarters and fried, heaped with shredded chicken, lushly covered in salsa verde and drizzled with sour cream. The entire plate was piled high with food, and I thought briefly that I should get a go-box for half of it. Couldn't bring myself to do that. (Which is why this place is becoming a restaurant: you just can't wait to get the food home.)

I'm not comparing these to chilaquiles of other sorts, most of which I love: they are alike only in name and in the eponymous ingredient (the pieces of fried corn tortilla). To say these are better or worse than a good taco of chilaquiles con huevo done in the bajía style would be like saying a perfect pork roast is better than a perfect salade niçoise; it'd be meaningless.

So, that said, are these the best chilaquiles I've ever eaten? Yes, they are. They are, easily, the best. My congratulations to Marioli's, and my thanks to Graciela, who wrote the comment that alerted me to this place. (And to Rick, who bought me a cookie before we left, a deliciously decadent chilled chocolate shortbread sandwich that I wish I'd let warm up before I ate it.)