The Coolest Sister

Before I enter my next taco entry, I'd like to take a little time and write about my sister. For male readers that don't have a sister, let me tell you, it's a sort of amazing relationship. It was her birthday yesterday. And as I fell over myself apologizing for forgetting, it's important to say that no brother has loved his sister more or forgotten her birthday with greater frequency. Jordan, you're amazing.

My family has three siblings. We're all very different people. Still, in any family with three kids, alliances are always formed and somehow, invariably, two of the siblings find themselves cut from closer cloth than others. That's Jordan and I. Call it disposition, common interest, or a certain sense of forgiveness (she's done more of it than I ever will)that I always felt made us better friends than just simply a familial bond. In other words, I'd want to be her friend even if she wasn't my sister. She's that cool.

When you're an older brother it seems at first natural to want to take care of your "little sister." And then, as you grow older, you want to pummel her with a pillow or wrestle her into a painful submission. Which I probably did. At some point you wish she had hot friends, and that they'd spend countless hours sunbathing along the edge of an aquamarine pool that you also wish you had. But she was always a little wacky and for some reason liked the same movies that I did (Grease, Bye Bye Birdie, Dirty Dancing--no, I'm actually a straight man, trust me on this). She wasn't afraid of a few fart jokes or a tepid box of take out pizza. She could throw a great fit and go nuclear with my mom. I'm not saying she was a Tom Boy. She was pure chick. We just connected in a unique way. Plus, we could blame stuff on my brother and maintain our super majority status, which is always cool.

There are just enough years between Jordan and I that our relationship exists in big bulk snapshots. She was 8 years old one day and 19 years old the next. And somewhere in between we kind of drifted apart, maybe back together again, and then apart until the next time. Suddenly she was a cheerleader--kicking away under the klieg lights in a small farming town. Then she was graduating from college. Then she was pregnant. Then she was a mother. I'm regretful of the fact that, for so many years, I knew her only in the context of these milestones rather than in the nuanced way we all live our lives. Still, at all of these junctions she was happy (which is different from care free) and easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, and instantly reminded me how blessed I was and am to have such a beautiful sister.

Every family has its ups and downs. That should go without saying. Our has, and I'm ashamed to say that I've contributed to the majority of them. But the older I get, the more I'm convinced that it's how a family deals with the adversity that reveals the strength of the tribe. After many difficult years, Jordan and I picked up just about where we left off. Brother and sister, friends, loved ones. She has always, always, been willing to set aside differences or flaws in the name of a higher good. It takes a lot of strength and maturity to do that. To go beyond petty. To see what's really important in a family: Love and Forgiveness. I respect you for that sis, and I love you for having that in you.

As you grow older, brother and sisters are different from parents and children. Moms and dads become friends with their children as they grow older. Authority disappears and is replaced by lessons and transparency. Plus, by the time you reach that point you've screwed up enough times to listen to their advice and know it's true. But with a brother or sister it's different. You're like Big/Little kids. So there's this constant play between the past and the present--Goofy Grown Ups. And its the Goofy that makes the Grown Up feel so much more refreshing. Jordan, you're a great Goofy Grown Up, and the only person I know that sends me quotes from "Stripes" to my cell phone ONLY to challenge my useless movie trivia knowledge. Two part question: What is the name of the man that fixes Lane Myers' broken ski, and WHAT is his physical condition?

So sis, I love you. From the bottom of my heart. When I tell people about my family I'm always proud when I tell them about you and your family, what an awesome mom you are, what a great friend you are, and how much I just think the world of you. I smile every time we talk, and I'm smiling right now. You're the best. Happy 19th birthday.

Andale!

Takes some guts to name a taco place "Andale"--strikes me as on par with calling it "Pancho's" or something equally cliched...but what do you expect from an airport?

I've been travelling quite a bit for work lately. I have an awesome job, and it allows me to see places of the country and meet super nice people that I would only otherwise talk to on the phone or on-line. It also puts me inside of lots of hotels and hotel resteraunts. These aren't really taco meccas. Frankly, I think there's some Orwellian conspiracy to turn "Blackened Chicken Caesar Salad" into the new Soylent Green.

I found "Andale" on a recent blaze through the Oakland airport. With a couple hours to kill I settled in to an Inquisition-style wooden chair and ordered, according to my receipt from "Andale Mexican Resteraunt: Terminal Two" a "jumbo taco platter." The picture on the big menu looked pretty damn good--three chubby little tacos kissing up to a lovin' spoonful of frijoles and a spry looking salad. How Taco Terriblus could it be?

Turns out, plenty.

The sweet girl took my order--I opted for asada--and called it out to a surly looking cat in a hair net who began to scoop up said asada from a metal bowl resting on the stove. It should be noted, I really have a problem with hair nets ever since I found an eyelash embedded in a slice of velveeta cheese that I was hoping to use on my version of the Shake Shack burger. Grossed me out. So I was a little nervous about the whole hair net-meat scoop relationship to begin with. After that I retreated to my chair and waited for the waterboarding to begin.

When the waitress (in the most ridiculously generous term as I never saw her again) brought my platter I had one of those moments when you really have to give credit to food photographers. Gone were the chubby little tacos. Dr. FrankenTaco had replaced them with three phlaccid mounds of meat scattered with onions and "queso." The nice pile of frijoles had morphed into a ghoulish glob of gastro-hell that challenged the senses to point of blindness. The salad was, on its best day, salvaged from some UN Relief chow station in Mumbai.

You always have choice and free will when you eat. You can always pull the plug, walk away, and try again later, someplace else. But I saw the health inspector's note tacked to the wall and figured that I'd take a small chance--after all, it's an airport...

The first bite of taco #1 confirmed what you probably know by now: it was a greasy mouthful of pig shit. The tortilla slid down my throat like a stomach-pump tube (don't ask how I know this) while the meat floated around in my mouth long enough to confirm the likeness to chewing a boiled shoe lace. "Chewing" isn't really the right verb. I didn't have to chew insomuch as let it disintegrate into a cardboard-y mess. Honestly, how many dishes have you eaten that you can say that "fresh onions" were the best part? Were it not for the insane amount of Tapatio that I doused these tacos with I may have lept through the plate glass keeping me from a 40 foot fall onto the tarmac.

The frijoles where a little like eating kidney or gall stones. And they had a similar result many hours later. I don't need to indulge any sick sense of humor, but trust me, I PAID for those beans.

The salad went untouched. By the time I finished a couple tacos I needed a 64 oz of kerosine to kill whatever it was that was making my stomach feel as if I'd been gutshot. I'll be sure to load up on veg next time I'm at Andale's.

I arrived in Phoenix later that night. Waiting for my girlfriend to pick me up, I sort of held my guts and rubbed them in a sore attempt to ease the onslaught that the taco platter had levelled against normalcy, health, or free world democracy. So the search continues. Tonight I'm heading to a puestra downtown that usually has a line of tough guy looking taco fans. It has to be better than Andales...

Hey dad...

I do have a really choice taco entry, but I need to write about this first:

My dad is turning 65 this year. He and I haven't always had the best relationship. It's a little bit of a cliche to write that--and I'm sure there are lots of men my age that once had an "angry young man" attitude toward their dad, or to authority in general. I certainly did. But we're both older now. The lion's share of our lives are behind us. I imagine that neither he nor I ever imagined that there'd be a time when the scales became imbalanced towards the past rather than the future, but that time is here for both of us (note to sexy young female readers: I still have much game, don't hesitate to write).

My earliest memories of my dad go pretty far back to a time when our family was a trifecta of my mother, my father, and I. These are hazy memories, but aren't value neutral. We lived, I imagine, a simple life--a young family on the come-up. Strangely, my dad-memories have to do with food. Odd, I know. But there was a deli near our house and I remember going there with him to snap a pickle or a frank to snack on. I know, in hindsight, that he was working terribly hard to take care of his family--something he's always done, even to the day. But these are tangible memories, not the slide show shots that tip a hand to the prior, rakish years...

My family has an insane collection of slides. I wish people still had these things, but the digital age has leeched the sentimentality and effort from the act of preserving memories. To me, there's something about the smell of a hot projector bulb and the "whack" of a slide carriage moving forward that cracks me up. And somewhere in between the photos of my mom's beehive hair and my grandparent's Thanksgiving is a few rare pictures of my dad as a young man. He was lean, a lifeguard, with a mean crew cut and that certain unstoppable confidence that only a young man in his true prime possesses. That look, that "Let's go world, I'll fuck you up!" look--a challenge and a belief and an inner confidence. To some extent I think those are the truest and most beautiful qualities of youth.

We ended up having a normal family. I have a brother and a sister, a mom and a dad. And as I grew up, my memories about my dad have a lot to do with sports: baseball, soccer, basketball. I even have an ill-fated football memory (trust me, I'm no gridiron guy--don't even know the rules). But it wasn't only like that. My dad taught me to play chess. A sport that I love to this second. We played on a small wooden board that my mom gave to my dad during their first Christmas. I have that board now, and it's hidden away, so don't even ask to see it. But sports were always a big deal in my family. My brother is a natural athlete, and I'm envious of his knack for that sort of thing. I was/am all thumbs in that regard. But we still played all the time. It was an important ritual for my dad to play catch or throw some pitches to us. This sounds so Cleaver-esque, but it's true. We actually played a LOT of catch after he got home from work. No idea where he found the energy, but we threw that damn ball tens of thousands of times. As I grew older I concluded A) that I pretty much suck at sports and B) Sports were a symbol of "The Man" and his twisted ways. I much preferred to tap dance.

Tonight on the phone he asked me if I thought he'd been a good father. It's a really great question, as there are lots and lots of crappy dad's out there. Growing up, I explained, any relationship shortcomings were more the product of my adolescent anti-authoritarianism than anything else. He was always consistent and loving. In that great Greek tragedy of youth, you almost have to rebel against the father figure in order to begin determining who you are before the wheel turns and you finally conclude, years later, that you can never stray too far from home.

As a young man I did as much as I could to distance myself from my dad. It's not that I hated the man or wanted nothing to do with him. It was simply that I wasn't convinced that he had it all figured out. I think that's a pretty predictable stance to take when you're 21 and full of the same swagger that I now see in those old slides. Strange how that works out. Like old Hamlet says, "To hold a mirror up to nature" is to show you who you are.

We went through some bad, distant years. Years that I can't see much good in, other than that they make me now appreciate his consistency and love. I told him this tonight: regardless of what was going on, he was always consistent and I always knew that he loved me, his oldest son. And trust me, I worked as hard as I could to disprove this. But he never gave up. That might be his most defining trait: he is not a quitter. He never gave up, even when I was doing everything I could to do just that. I don't have a son, never will, but I can only try to imagine the guts, mixed with devastating sadness, that he forced himself to endure in order to be there for me when my Greek wheel turned so many years later.

So we found ourselves on the phone tonight--having not spoken for a few days. I got in late last night and he was feeling his age. He asked me if I thought he'd been a good dad. It wasn't an insecure question--not levelled in the interest of self-congratulation or anything so self serving. It was just an honest question. My answer to him, to you dad, is as follows: any shortcomings in our relationship have been my doing--either through youthful rebellion or monstrous choices. But they've been mine. You've never let me down, and you've always been yourself. We joke, as a family, about Clark Griswold and your occasional, strange similarity. But we know it's in jest. You love your family, and your oldest son. We know that you've worked your ass for us all. We are all also old enough to know that nobody is perfect, but you're as close as possible as long as you're just being yourself--and you've always done that. You're a real person, and you've been a real father.

You and I are at points in our lives where we're friends now. Your work with me is mostly done (mostly, I said mostly!). It's not accurate to say that I don't think of you as a father. You're always my dad. But you're my friend now, too. One of the best I have. So the answer to your original question lies therein--in my opinion the true measure of your success is the relationship's ability to evolve. After so many years, I have a dad, a father, a friend, a mentor. You've done an incredible job, and I never want you to question the success of your effort. I've got your back, and I know you've got mine. What more can you ask for these days? All my love.

The Best Kept Secret Taco in Phoenix

Phoenix is a great late night city. I'm not talking about Scottsdale, with its blinged out silly trucker hat set, the Ed Hardy orgy, and the Dirty Scottsdale party girls. I'm reppin' CenPho proper here, with its burgeoning farmers market, glass pillar buildings, broad streets, and sense of imminent identity. See, Phoenix grew too fast, gorged itself on easy money and terrible debt. Stretched itself out to the point of exhaustion. And when it was time for the devil to collect his dues, the city itself had to regroup and reinvent itself in a manner more authentic, more culturally diverse, and with emerging culinary excellence...tacos included. After this weekend I have more hope than ever.

I rocked a taco over the weekend that is the best I've had so far. Tucked into a parking lot next to Charlie's, the shack has the classic look of many puestras around town: an aluminum trailer with a couple white tent-like deals set up in front. One word: "Taco" is painted on the front end of the trailer. And, after about 9 p.m., they start cranking out insanely good tacos. By 3 a.m. there's a line around the corner--chilly masses huddling together, noses bloodhounding the air to catch a whiff of the char-grilled goodness pouring off of the grill. Carina and I started going there a few months ago and it's become a regular pit stop on our weekend rotation.

The first thing that makes these tacos so unbelievably superior is the meat. They're using skirt steak and butterflied chicken breasts, and both have obviously been marinating in some magic elixer before they slap it on the searing hot, perfectly seasoned grill. The marinade itself tastes like a mixture of cumin, orange juice, grilled onion, chile powders, and a hint of cinammon. I asked for the recipe, trust me, but got nowhere. Plus, the guy manning the grill puts a mean char on the meat, expertly judging the doneness before passing it on to the smiling dude at the tronco.

The second exceptional thing about these tacos is the tortilla itself. On any given day I'd say that a freshly made tortilla will put the Snooka down on a store bought tortilla. But in this case I'm wrong. They use pre-made corn tortillas, lots of them. To add another layer of flavor, however, they lightly dredge the edges of the tortilla in what looks like rendered fat. I've seen this done before, but never up close like this. After wetting the edges of the tortilla they toss it down on a hot, well seasoned griddle for a quick warm up. And as with most taco shacks, they double up the tortilla before stuffing. I don't know if it's the fat or the flavor of the griddle, but these little guys come off tasting like a meal all their own. They aren't rubbery or too dry, and they maintain enough structural rigidity to perfectly nest an expertly chopped handful of meat.

Years ago I bought a big Chinese style cutting block at a fancy kitchen store. It weighs a ton, made of beautiful maple, and I've oiled it religiously through the years. It's a good friend, and has helped me out with some awesome meals. Still, when I see a taco cook wailing away on a worn tree trunk that's been hollowed out through whack after whack from a cleaver, well, I get envious. So to watch a grill cook toss a brilliantly charred piece of skirt steak onto a tronco is a thing of true bliss. Then, to watch the knife man dice the steak up--as he's done thousands of times--into luscious little bites, puts me over the edge. The dull "thunk" of the cleaver into wood (bear in mind, he's not even looking at the meat--he's chatting up the guy in the pink cowboy hat)has a metronomic ease that is gastronomically hypnotic. But that's exactly how it is. By the time you make it to the grill to place your order, the sound of the cleaver hitting the wood and the smell of grilled meat and warm tacos has you so wound up that's you can't help but order eight or nine tacos!

I'm increasingly convinced that portion size has a lot to do with a quality taco. Too much meat, etc. and you've got a mess on your hands. Too little and the tortilla-to-filling ratio is also out of whack. I mean, you go to Taco Bell (god forbid) and they proudly tout a "STUFFED taco." But really, is that necessary? All that happens is that you blow cheap ground beef out the back end of the beast and gain four pounds. A great taco succeeds because of balance, and this late night shack killed it on that end. The taco-to-filling ratio (TFR) is absolutely perfect. The tortilla doesn't overpower the meat, and the salsa complements the taco without smothering the other flavors.

There are five salsas at this puestra. Each is excellent. There is masking tape on big plastic bowls, on which someone has written (in black Sharpie) "Hot" "Medium" "Mild" "Verde" and "Fresh." There is also a huge bowl of nicely diced white onions and another of cilantro. On this particular night I ordered five beef tacos in order to try each salsa. The "hot" salsa was excellent, bordering on almost too peppery for my taste. "Medium" and "Mild" were top quality. "Verde" and "Fresh," however, were slam dunks. The "Verde" had smoked green peppers and tomatillo expertly blended together, and the "Fresh" tasted like smoked serrano peppers. They knocked me out. Really great stuff. Plus, the white onions have obviously been soaked in water as they didn't have the "onion-y" badness that I normally try and avoid unless I'm hunting the great white taco.

The more I think about this grail quest the more I'm convinced that the atmosphere of the taqueria or puestra plays a significant role in the allure. There's something to be said for sitting at a communal table, very late, when the air itself is quiet, and munching tacos and laughing with people that are complete strangers. It's just a fantastic way to share those late night stories with others and reminds you that there's a huge amount of goodness out there. And that we've all elected to be at a taco stand--not a Denny's or a Pancake House--but a taco stand. Remarkable. After piggish years of growing from the outside out, this city is developing a heart of its own--one that's growing from the inside this time, and these tacos will fuel us all.

Viva Jalisco

It's high time to learn Spanish. If I'm going to do this search good and proper then it's going to be crucial to speak to the taco makers--and many don't speak English. Plus, anymore, it seems ridiculous not to speak Spanish--especially if you live in a city like Phoenix. There's a solid and proud Latin history in this city. Certainly picking up the language is an easy way to show some respect as well. Unfortunately, the county Sherriff, Joe Arpio, has polarized Phoenix using his version of a race war as the lynch pin. Mr. Arpio, bat shit crazy, must see himself as some sort of One Man Alamo. Cuidado Senor. Cuidado. Point being, to entench myself fully in taco culture I'm going to have to learn Spanish so I can talk freely.

I learned this lesson the hardway at Taco Jalisco. I started with Jaliso because it has gained some notoriety recently. Fancy resteraunt chefs and resteraunteurs have been skulking about, tasting the food, and probably thinking up their own ways to open high end taco joints (I can see it now: "Slow braised short rib with mesquite roasted salsa and blue maize tortillas"). Located in South Scottsdale, Jalisco has a hugely loyal following. The place is small, and looks like it used to be a drive-through burger place. Small parking lot, a few plastic tables and chairs out front, and garishly painted windows--big hand-painted tacos and shrimp. Excellent. I'm surprised that a contemporary artist hasn't done something with the window paintings on taquerias. Besides the fact that Jalisco has been frequented by the local chef set, the other reson that it has received good buzz is that their food is very good.

I arrived right before noon and Jalisco was jammed. The hissing grill and smell of fresh tortillas turned me inside out. In the interest of trying to sound like I knew what I was doing, I ordered in Spanish. Now, I THOUGHT I'd orderd the tacos el pastor lunch plate and a couple beers. Feeling a little smug, I sauntered over to the salsa bar after placing my order and filled plastic cups with incredible, smoky salsas. The jukebox was banging out mariachi music and packs of people kept streaming in. When my order arrived it looked NOTHING like the tacos el pastor that I'd ordered. The meat looked shredded rather than a small dice. Something amiss. I asked the lady taking orders if this was el pastor. "No, cabeza" she replied. Cabeza. The meat from a cow's head. Cow head meat. Hmmm. Ok. I was saving cabeza for a particularly adventurous day. But, because I don't know how to say "Number Six" in Spanish I ended up with Number 17--cow head tacos. See what I'm saying? Time to pick up some espanol.

Jalisco makes a wicked good taco. The tortillas are fresh, small, and have an amazing texture. I love the way that they're doubled to make a nice sturdy little container for the goodness. The condiment bar, as I mentioned, has three salsas--a smoky, chipotle salsa, a super hot salsa (really, really hot), and a light verde style. All were excellent. Plus, Jaliso serves grilled jalapenos, radishes, and the mandatory lime wedges. I didn't want to be a coward, so I grabbed a grilled jalapeno and munched it down. Probably not the best idea, but the grilled quality seemed to have lessened the heat. It still burt all the way down.

Cabeza was strange. It reminded me a little bit of the only time I've eaten head cheese. On a dare. It tasted like a bloody nose. The cabeza was like that. It was tasty enough--the meat was soft and didn't have much fat on it. But I can't say that it was the best tasting meat I've ever eaten. I tried a different salsa with each of the three tacos. The hot salsa with a big squeeze of lime worked the best in my opinion. I don't need to eat the head meat taco again.

The sides at Jaliso were a little disappointing. Each taco plate comes with rice and beans, some shredded iceberg lettuce, one slice of tomato, and some sour cream. The rice was flat tasting and the peas and carrots in it were clearly frozen before cooking. The beans were a little cold and the sprinkle of cheese on top was rubbery. Not too sure why they bother with the lettuce, tomato, and sour cream. In the future I'll simply order the tacos without the rest.

Were I to rate Jaliscos, I'd give it huge points for the atmosphere, music, and super friendly staff. I'd also say that the tacos are excellent in terms of tortilla quality, salsas, and yes, head meat. I'm not going to do a rating scale (7 out of ten on the Tacometer), but I'll give Jaliso an above average evaluation. Let's see how the Phoenix foodie chefs respond in turn...