In theory, a tamale sandwich is a terrible idea. You take a cylindrical mass of cornmeal—thick as a fist and filled with things like shredded chicken or peppers—you insert it between two slices of a plump white bun, and you basically get a dough sandwich. The torta de tamal, or guajolota, as it's known in Mexico, is a Mexico City special—beloved by city natives and damned by just about everyone else in this country. How can one possibly eat a tamale (filling on its own) with bread to boot? It's just wrong, the naysayers protest.
I'd counted myself among them for the past year that I've lived in Mexico City, since I was bound and determined never to eat a tamale sandwich. Tamales are generally breakfast fare in Mexico and are typically washed down with atole, a hot, creamy drink made from rice or (surprise, surprise) cornmeal. Adding bread to that mix seemed silly, a reckless choice for a sensitive stomach.
Then one morning on my way to a class, I passed a señora selling hot tamales and she had a rare vegetarian option: green peppers and cheese, a favorite. As she reached into the steaming vat, she asked if I wanted it plain or in a torta. I realized that if I got it plain I'd have to stand there and eat it on the spot with a fork, cupping its corn husk wrap in my hands. Well, I didn't feel like it. So I said, "torta, por favor" and took my sandwich to go. I ordered a rice atole as well.
Near the school there are a few benches in the shade of trees and a large sculpture. I made myself comfortable and pulled out my tamale, conveniently contained in sandwich form, and took a bite. Epiphany struck. The mix of buttery cornmeal dough, green peppers, melted cheese and red salsa moistened the roll and tasted heavenly. And I discovered the secret lure of the tamale sandwich: convenience in morning rush hour and warm comfort food, combined.
Honestly, I was full practically until dinnertime... but officially hooked.
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