While munching on peanuts earlier today, I found myself thinking about dinner last night. It was better.
We have a Mexican-born friend who sometimes brings food over. She did it again yesterday.
I’ve heard it said that a Mexican restaurant can and should be judged by the quality of its chiles rellenos.
In my experience, hers have no equal.
It’s good to have friends.
Eons ago, on my mission in German-speaking Switzerland, I would sometimes crave Mexican food. (I grew up with it.) The craving generally hit me suddenly and out of the blue, late at night. I would resolve to write the Embassy of Mexico on our next preparation day, asking where to find Mexican cuisine. But, of course, the craving would pass and, as a matter of fact, I never wrote to the Mexican Embassy. Finally, though, I found a place in Zürich that served enchiladas . . . with mashed potatoes and gravy. Somehow, I think they just hadn’t caught the vision. (Things are better there now. Authentic Mexican food is served in several Swiss restaurants that I’ve seen.)
Even earlier, there was a fast food joint in San Gabriel, California, that made the best all-meat burritos in the universe. “Angie’s El Burrito,” it was called. They were fabulous, and my parents would sometimes bring them up to me, frozen, while I was an undergraduate at BYU. Eventually, Angie’s place shut down. (I’m sure she’s long gone now. She was already fairly old then.) I think they moved to Glendale. If Angie’s heirs are still making those all-meat burritos somewhere, and if somebody out there knows the location, please share. I’ll make it worth your while.
I have a good friend who dislikes Mexican food. He’s a good guy, but I’ve always regarded that as a character flaw.
Posted from Arlington, Virginia