The café around the corner from my photography school is called either the Time Box Café or El Rincón Libanés (The Lebanese Corner), depending on which sign one chooses to trust. But it's not known by neither of those two names. Everyone who frequents this spot at the corners of Río Nazas and Río Tigris simply says, "I'm going with the Lebanese guys for coffee." In fact, two Lebanese brothers own the place. They make a stiff espresso and a tasty cappuciono. And they do so whenever they feel like it: The hours of operation vary depending on the day, the hour, their mood and possibly the weather.
I'd been hankering for one of their tangy spinach pies for weeks—having recently visited more than once in vain, since the café was inexplicably closed once at noon and another time at 10 a.m.—and, when finally I found the café open, they had sold all their spinach pies for the day. Sadly, I ordered a cappuccino and waited for a friend to arrive. In the meantime, one of the brothers came to my table to further apologize for the lack of spinach pies and insisted I try his falafel. Actually, he gave me no choice: He said he'd make the sandwich regardless and if I didn't like it, I could leave it right on the table. Then he swore it would be the best falafel sandwich I'd ever had.
Having lived in New York where falafel is a dietary staple of busy on-the-go vegetarian types (such as I was), I've had a lot of falafel. So I wasn't expecting much from this corner café when the brother delivered a plate with a gorgeous falafel wrap teeming with perfectly fried falafel, lettuce, tomato, onion and dripping a thin, creamy salsa. The falafel balls of crushed fava beans were crispy and toasted brown on the outside and soft and golden on the inside. The pita was hearty but delicate and thin as a tortilla. And it was the best falafel I'd ever tried—a real treasure in Mexico, where finding good, exotic eats is not so easy as in New York.
Of course, I haven't been to Lebanon ... yet. But my cousin has married a beautiful woman from Beirut, so as soon as I have the chance to visit, I'll revisit this post to compare.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Art of Adaptation
As often happens in Mexico, plans shift abruptly and one finds that one has a sudden chunk of unanticipated time to fill (while waiting for someone to make the date).
One night I was at a coffee shop waiting for the owner to arrive for an interview, for which he was already half an hour late. Upon receiving news that he'd be at least another half an hour (which, in Mexico, means likely an hour), and given that I'd already gulped one espresso, I thought I'd take a walk and a sate a lingering craving for a glass of red wine.
I'd spotted a hole-in-the-wall bar that offered tapas and ought to have wine. So I strolled up to the bar and asked the bartender what wines he had by the glass. He said there was only one, and he gestured to a barrel on the counter. "A red wine from Coahuila," he said. I gave him a doubtful look. He kindly offered a taste. "It's a young wine," he said. I took a sip and, practically against my will, made a face—"young" being a euphemism in this case for bad. Certainly, I wasn't hoping for much, but neither was I expecting something wholly undrinkable. So I said thank you and left feeling frustrated. Where could a woman get a decent glass of wine around here?
The night was clear and cool—a consolation—and I decided to walk off the rest of my wait. When I neared the corner of the coffee shop, I recognized a mezcalería I'd been to before. And I simultaneously recognized my mistake: Wine? To hell with it. I should have stuck to what this country does best. A perfect shot of mezcal (a cousin of tequila, the best of which is produced in the southern state of Oaxaca) beats an uninteresting glass of vino any day.
In Mexico, you can long for the perfect cheeseburger and face repeated disappointment, or you can relish tacos of juicy grilled beef. You can hanker for a loaf of crusty Italian bread and settle for a flaccid imitation, or you can roll up a steaming, hearty corn tortilla in grateful hands. Culinary happiness is learning to savor the flavors where you live.
One night I was at a coffee shop waiting for the owner to arrive for an interview, for which he was already half an hour late. Upon receiving news that he'd be at least another half an hour (which, in Mexico, means likely an hour), and given that I'd already gulped one espresso, I thought I'd take a walk and a sate a lingering craving for a glass of red wine.
I'd spotted a hole-in-the-wall bar that offered tapas and ought to have wine. So I strolled up to the bar and asked the bartender what wines he had by the glass. He said there was only one, and he gestured to a barrel on the counter. "A red wine from Coahuila," he said. I gave him a doubtful look. He kindly offered a taste. "It's a young wine," he said. I took a sip and, practically against my will, made a face—"young" being a euphemism in this case for bad. Certainly, I wasn't hoping for much, but neither was I expecting something wholly undrinkable. So I said thank you and left feeling frustrated. Where could a woman get a decent glass of wine around here?
The night was clear and cool—a consolation—and I decided to walk off the rest of my wait. When I neared the corner of the coffee shop, I recognized a mezcalería I'd been to before. And I simultaneously recognized my mistake: Wine? To hell with it. I should have stuck to what this country does best. A perfect shot of mezcal (a cousin of tequila, the best of which is produced in the southern state of Oaxaca) beats an uninteresting glass of vino any day.
In Mexico, you can long for the perfect cheeseburger and face repeated disappointment, or you can relish tacos of juicy grilled beef. You can hanker for a loaf of crusty Italian bread and settle for a flaccid imitation, or you can roll up a steaming, hearty corn tortilla in grateful hands. Culinary happiness is learning to savor the flavors where you live.
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