The mighty fine boyfriend and I went to Mexico and, naturally, it seems like eons ago, although it was just earlier this year, during the stretch we thought would never end, the snowmaggeddon stretch that ~pouf~ evaporated into bursting-at-the-pollen-puffed-seams SPRING. Boing, bounce, bing, boing. It is as warm here now as it was in Mexico then.
The choices, thanks be to the gods, are limited on Isla Holbox, when it comes to lunchtime. Limited choices in all things there. More thanks, genuinely. We revisited Pablo’s sweet lunch encounter under the tarpaulin, and he was a first class act through and through every day, in or out of his chef whites. The beauty of small town life was incapsulated there. Richness and depth within limits, something that has been hot on my mind lately after being reminded by Wendell Berry that parameters are a thing of beauty. An unavoidable gift.
Tortas were new to me. Just when you think there is nothing new to be revealed to you, along comes a torta, or rather, along came I, TO the torta, and life was fresh again. Fresh and exciting, both exotic and wonderfully ordinary.
Heat is good for my appetite. When my shoulders unhunch and my fingers are limber enough to wrap themselves around an oozing zeppelin of a sandwich, the conversation simultaneously brightens and slows, companionship over a table appeals again, and I feel hungry, truly hungry, for meals that hang ten over the edges of the plate, and for the crawl of juice running down my arms.Phoenix Magazine knows that a Mexican torta is not for dessert and that it is not goopy. Goopy?? Not on Isla Holbox under Pablo’s canopy. And not The Cochinita, distinguished on the mag’s best sandwich list.
As many times as I have been to Arizona, I have yet to set foot in Phoenix. Some folks say it is a culinary desert, but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe in culinary deserts. There is always something good to eat, if you look hard enough and with unlimited parameters.