On the Bastardization of Latin Cuisine Abroad

I'm not entirely sure how to begin this polemic without putting a fist-sized hole through my laptop screen. To say that I am disappointed in the state of Mexican food in Europe would be an understatement. Disappointed is what you are when your favorite snooker player gets their asses kicked. It's what you are when the local ice cream shop runs out of caramel sauce for your triple bypass sundae. It's what you are when your third-rate baseball playing son sits on his ass in far left outfield picking at flowers (speaking from personal experience as the arguably fourth-rate baseball-playing ninny focused more on the blades of grass at my feet than the white cork ballistic being fired my general direction.) I am not disappointed. I am furious. I am the victim of a culinary violation of the Geneva Convention. The burrito that I just had the great displeasure to consume brought to light the seething hatred stored deep in my black heart for the past year and a half (Dare I call it a burrito? I just ate the baby from Eraserhead).

Disclaimer

I'd like to begin, as I often do, with a disclaimer. I'm a white guy, from the whitest and most northeastern state in the US, who speaks enough Spanish to impress a Moe's Southwest Grill employee. The Mexican and general Latin cuisine near me will shock few with its gastronomical profundity (I'll also clarify here that when I speak about "Latin," I mean in the sense of the bulk of Central and South America, not the SPQR kind). That's not to say there aren't some Pueblan line cooks toiling in New England kitchens, but overall New England is not the American taco Mecca. The United States in general tends to pale in its replication of Mexico and Latin America's cuisines, or so I've been told by some of my Latino friends. Naturally, if you do find a Latin restaurant and you're the only English-speaking gringo kicking around, chances are high that you're gonna get a rockin' dose of tortas and enchiladas (ask for the lengua if you really want to flex). Hell, if you've been to LA (pretentiously pronounced "ell-ayyy"), it's likely that an older Hispanic lady has said to you "Hola, mi hijo, what can I get you?" then produced a handful of soft white corn tortillas topped with melt-in-your-mouth marinated meat, cilantro (if cilantro tastes like soap to you, then you come from a weak bloodline), raw onions, and salsa verde (or roja, however you get your kicks).

What I'm trying to get at in my typical overcomplicated rambling, is that I know some decent Latin food. I've eaten plenty of late night drunken pupusas stuffed with cheese and chicharróns with my husky El Salvadoran buddy, I've had my fair share of avocado and pork stuffed arepas as I went googly-eyed over the cute Venezuelan waitress, and I spent nearly the entirety of my childhood in a Mexican restaurant (Hi, Dad). So, now that I'm here in Europe (and I'm going to overgeneralize like a son of a gun), the Latin food has been utterly disappointing (didn't I say I wasn't disappointed but rather furious?).

"But but, you're in Europe! Why don't you eat wienerschnitzel and foie gras?"

Because, you pedantic figment of my imagination with whom I win every argument, I fucking love tacos.

French Tacos

When I first moved to France, I was quickly enamored with the abundance of ads for tacos everywhere I went. I was elated that even in the land of rich buttery wine sauces and stinky aged cheeses (two things that I fully intend to have present in my autopsy), I would be able to acquire some modicum of beyond the southern border cooking. To say that my high hopes were quickly dashed away would be exercising immense restraint. 

The French taco is an edible travesty stemming from the land of haute cuisine. They are starchy flour tortillas filled with some type of meat (chicken, beef, badger, etc.), a fistful of French fries, cheese in some form or other (often a cheese sauce), and a pint of one's chosen kebab shop sauce. After this monstrosity is formed, it's grilled shut and sometimes topped with further sauce or cheese. It resembles a Mexican taco the same way I resemble David Beckham.

I won't pretend there aren't some superb remixes of the classic taco. Chef Roy Choi and his Korean-fusion Kogi tacos are the peak of cultural culinary combination, serving traditional Korean cuisine in a contemporary medium. But at their core, they are still, for all intents and purposes, a taco. They are served in white corn tortillas and are made with the same love that every Los Angeles food truck taco is. I also won't pretend like there aren't some horrendous taco renditions out there. Taco Bell, which proudly if ironically boasts the food in its name, makes the crack den equivalent of Mexican tacos; either paltry hard-shelled tacos filled with "beef" (citation required) or Frankensteined creations of various tortilla shells, sauce, and fake meats (but they did give us Baja Blast, so I'm open to cutting them some slack).

Admittedly, French tacos do not necessarily pretend to be authentic Mexican tacos. They're pretty open about the fact that you're only going to be eating them while absolutely polluted and being yelled at by the Moroccan guy behind the counter. You don't buy a French taco with images of Jalisco in mind, you buy a French taco because you're a pastis-soaked mess in desperate need of anything to sponge up the alcohol burning its way through your liver. But come on, calling them tacos really screws with the water-on-the-brain minds of foreigners (e.g. me) who mistakenly think they're about to find a little slice of Oaxaca all the way across the pond.

Grocery Store Supplies

I have expressed great chagrin at the selection of Latin products in European grocery stores (again, a major overgeneralization considering I'm speaking about France and Romania). The available salsas range from, at best, Mission Hill and Old El Paso, to Doritos (yes, Doritos, the chips you buy for college parties because you're a broke 22 year old. They have salsa. And yes, it's exactly what you would expect from Doritos salsa). Finding tortillas not made of flour is typically an exercise in futility. Unless you have the grand fortune to find a small dedicated Mexican grocery store, you're likely SOL.

Finding proper spices is a superb test of one's future parenting potential; it requires restraint, patience, and above all else, the ability to say "Fuck it, this one's good enough." Once you've gone through the arduous process of translating your list of spices, you then have to go on a veritable Tolkien-esque adventure to locate them. I've spent 20 minutes desperately looking for coriander before breaking down and allowing a stranger to take pity on my spiceless plight. Here I was led to the Middle Eastern section and quickly made to feel like the utter simpleton I am.

(As a brief respite from my tear-jerking tragedy, here's a fun anecdote on tortillas. While cooking dinner for some Spanish friends, I expressed my frustration at being unable to find proper tortillas in Europe. Their visibly confused faces queued my inner Sherlock in on having to elucidate the issue. "The tortillas here are all made with flour; good tortillas are made with corn. What about in Spain? Do you use tortillas at all?" I asked. "Well yes, but I prefer mine with potatoes and onions." At this point, you're most likely as perplexed as I was. I've never heard of someone making tortillas with potatoes, let alone onions. We went back and forth for a few minutes on the proper ingredients for a tortilla. Eventually I pulled up a picture on my phone of tortillas, only to be met with a resounding "Ohhhhh......" Tortilla in Spain Spanish means omelette.)

The Main Offender

The inspiration for this post came from the burrito that I consumed the other night. I was so heavily unsettled by the experience that I immediately sat down and began working on this vitriolic polemic to assuage my snack-induced PTSD. Since then, my anger has subsided. I can now look back on this as a moment of cultural learning and personal growth. Or maybe I'll just stay bitter.

Let me set the stage for you.

It's been at least two months since I've had any Mexican food, my last encounter being at a local taco joint back home. I'm fiending for tacos like a Canadian mayor for amphetamines. A quick Google search shows about five places within appropriate distance of me. The one with the best reviews is one that specializes in "Mexican Inspired Street Food" (clearly by "inspired" they meant in the sense of Mark David Chapman and his favorite novel). I'm intrigued, my curiosity is peaked, my attention has been captured. Even the pictures on their social media show promise.

It's a hole in the wall shop, with five options for food: 1. burritos; 2. tacos; 3. quesadillas; 4. taco bowls; and 5. Crispers (some Crunchwrap Supreme influenced anathema). My alarm bells should have been going off at DEFCON 2, minimum. My request for tacos is rebuked as they had run out earlier. Perhaps a good sign? The tacos must be good if they've run out. Very well, a burrito it is. With beef. I haven't eaten beef since I've arrived. It was when he produced the tortilla that my heart dropped into the soles of my feet. A thick flour eyesore that promised banality. I had stepped into the belly of the beast and I was determined to leave with my head held high, burrito in my sausage-fingered clutches. 

"What do you want on it?" "Everything." Usually this translates to "Hey man, don't worry. I'm not a chicken nugget eating toddler; I can handle whatever you throw at me. You're the expert and I trust you." Here it meant that he was going to dig through the compost and stuff whatever he could into it. Waiting expectantly for an aged Ashton Kutcher to jump out for the Punk'D revival, I watched as the guy loaded it up with a variety of limp vegetables, dry rice, and aqueous Cheese (trademark pending) before grilling the seams shut. Blinking away tears, my mascara making shadowy streaks down my cheeks, I paid and took the burrito away to perish in obscurity, hidden away from the judging sight of Jove.

The first thing that struck me when I took a bite was the meat. Whoever had seasoned the beef was on a path to spread goiter as far as they could. Afraid of any iota of natural flavor poking through, they had ensured it was glutted with salt, carefully and completely disguising the flavor of the meat with the desiccant. From there on, distinctiveness disappeared and despair took hold of my heart. The burrito was, to put it politely, monotonous. Not an adjective I associate pleasantly with culinary experiences (or any experiences at that). 

I'd sooner eat a doorstop than reattempt this gustatory mishap (an important distinction is to be made here between "then" and "than"). 

A Cubano to Spark a Revolución

I am an unapologetic enthusiast of Cuban food. Since I first sipped that intoxicating and forceful mixture known as Cuban coffee, paired alongside a mustard-swabbed Cubano sandwich dripping with the most profoundly marinated pork, I've become a devotee of the mystical arts of Havana cooking. This, coupled with my fidelity for the Cuban revolutionary spirit (Get it? Fidelity) means that I'm always on the search for the island's cuisine when I travel. When I learned that there was a Cuban food truck in Bucharest, my heart fluttered and I had the kind of stirrings a priest gets for an altar boy.

The truck is gaudily decorated with ham-fisted references to the island, an amateur homage ripped from Jon Favreau's knockout film. Signs pointing to Havana (9000 km thatta way), pictures of Cuban flags waving over tropical beaches, enough clip art palm trees to line a Floridian boulevard, and of course, a license plate nailed to the counter depicting the immortal Che Guevara. I had walked over three miles to make it to the food truck's location, spurred on by the trappings of my favorite sandwich.

"I like the license plate. Che Guevara fan?" I inquired upon arrival,.

"Oh, yeah it's just part of the decoration. It fits the image. I think he was a psycho killer criminal." My heart sank again. The owner, admittedly a nice enough guy, went on about his love of Buena Vista Social Club and the movie Chef; how they inspired him to open his own food truck specializing in Cuban food. I couldn't fault him on either; I love them both too (and it's not like anyone here was going to call him out for it). Truthfully, I should not have been terribly surprised to meet someone in Romania who despised Che; the historical experience here doesn't necessarily mesh well with his.

The Cubano was not the best I've ever had. It was good, and I'm loathe to call it the worst since it was a dim light in a dark place. It had the pickles, the strong mustard, the (astoundingly just okay) pork, but it overflowed with gooey cheese and the ham came from the deli floor. I ended up eating it on a bench near some homeless guys and had an hour long conversation of relative gibberish and mistranslations. In the end, I gave them my soggy fries and two bucks for cigarettes ("I'll pay you back next time I see you!" Of course you will...).

Convenient Addendum

Just when I thought that my misadventures in Latin cuisine wouldn't end, I found a light at the end of the tunnel. While out with a friend today, we made the spontaneous decision to try out a local taqueria, one that also happened to have great reviews (I'm still very hesitant about trusting restaurant reviews in this country as the national collective taste buds are severely dulled by cheap cigarettes and bathtub brandy; you can trust a review for an ethnic restaurant here like you can trust Chris Christie to recommend you the best treadmill).

It was when we arrived to the taqueria, which I had passed previously in my misadventures, that I felt some spark of hope. I apologized to the tawny lady with the soft brown eyes and lingering Mexican accent who greeted us, "I don't speak much Romanian, do you speak English?" "Not much, Español?" "Un poco," I grinned. Off to a promising start.

Rapidly searching through the menu, I espied pozole, cochinita, flautas, and half a dozen puro tequilas. It probably wasn't going to impress, but I had the ascending feeling that my cravings may finally be sated. Wavering between the pozole (a dish which I had discussed only last night with my friend's mother, who comes directly from a small town in Jalisco) and the tacos, I finally caved and sprung for the tacos. Our amiable waitress even let me mix up the plate and get two cochinita and two al pastor.

Washed down with a crisp refreshing michelada (albeit sans tomato juice, not of my own accord) replete with Tajin and lime juice, the tacos left me awash in surfeited glory, a soft nigh post-coital glow about my countenance. They may have been served in flour tortillas, but I wasn't about to throw a fit. 

Of course I wasn't going to leave before I had a proper slug of fermented agave in my stomach. Herradura añejo, neat. Tossing the accompanying lime and salt into the adjacent street, I sipped pleasantly away at the tequila, savoring every last drop as my face turned ruddy and my mind swam like a cat in a hot tub.

FIN

I trust you've enjoyed sharing in what has now turned out to be little more than a pompous Yelp review. Your dear culinary crusader finally found love in a hopeless place. So if you ever fear a dearth of tacos, fret not and search on, you will find your Hispanic oasis in the desert of cuisine.