Adventures in Eating with Ita

 

My mom (affectionately referred to as "Ita" by her grandchildren.  Ita is short for Abuelita) and I have commenced to sampling different eateries during the pandemic.  It started about a month ago when one of my daughter's friends asked me to take her for birrias tacos.  I had never seen nor heard of these delicacies.  We started our search in the north part of Houston off Airline Dr. where the Farmer's Market used to be.  Sadly, it's been razed in the name of gentrification.  Our first stop was Teotihuacan Mexican Cafe (http://www.teomexicancafe.com).  They had plenty of outdoor seating to maintain social distancing guidelines, the wait staff all wore face masks, and there were plenty of hand-sanitizing stations.  Once we sat down inside and perused the menu my mother chose chicken flautas and I ordered the enchiladas rojas thinking that these might be the closest to birrias tacos.  My mom said the flautas were the best she'd had since her childhood which is a pretty strong endorsement coming from a girl from Laredo, TX whose father used to take her across the border to a place called La Única. After this we went to buy my 17 year-old daughter a piñata at Nopalitos Reyes and then headed for raspas at Tampico Refresqueria (https://m.facebook.com/pages/Tampico-Refresqueria/108145762561109) where she ordered a leche rapsa con crema and I ordered a coco blanco raspa.  Though we didn't find the elusive birrias tacos it was a successful day in terms of deliciousness and my mom and I had fun on our adventure.  My mom has always been one for adventures.  Despite her meager income as she was raising me and my brother, she always tried to make sure we had fun.  We'd drive up to the North Georgia mountains, save our pennies to go the water park, or drive to Texas or Virginia to spend time with our cousins.  I knew she'd be the perfect sidekick for any nefarious activities I might have planned.  She's always had a naughty streak even in her more devout days.  And at age 73 and 52, I decided that there is no time like the present to make some memories.  

Ita enjoying her chicken flautas. 10/10 per her vote.  

Don't let her face fool you.  These flautas are the real deal!

Chicken flautas (photographer needs help) with crispy, 

fried tortillas de harina and shredded chicken inside. 

Enchiladas rojas.  I'm not a huge enchiladas fan, 

but these were solid and the refried beans 

were full of manteca deliciousness!

Llama piñata; the ultimate winner

for my daughter's 17th birthday.

Donkey piñata, a close second.

Two days later we continued our search for birrias tacos.  These tacos are basic Mexican street tacos made with goat stew and dipped into a glorious red sauce (think a taco version of the French dip).  If goat is not your jam (I'm not a fan of cabrito) then you can substitute beef or your favorite meat and normally there is some Mexican cheesy goodness and grilled onions inside the mini corn tortilla and a side of fresh cilantro, radishes, and maybe cabbage. There are plenty of websites that explain the origin and give recipes.  This is a new fan favorite and definitely not Tex-Mex and they are touted to be the perfect hangover food.  The waitress at Teotihuacan had told us that we wouldn't find these tacos at their establishment, but did know a lady in her apartment complex that made them.  If it wasn't the time of Covid, I'd have likely asked for the address but since that isn't the case, my mom and I went to the internet to google "birrias tacos near me".  The first place we found was on Hillcroft behind a pawn shop in a dark alley next to a used tire store and an even shadier dentist.  When I had called the establishment, the gentleman assured me they were the best birrias tacos in Houston and he'd be waiting for me.  Ita normally isn't squeamish.  This is the lady who served us cesos (cow brains) when I was a first-grader in Wathena, Kansas and wouldn't tell me and my dad what we were eating until we had swallowed the last bite.  But when we drove up to the "best birrias in Houston", even my mom wouldn't get out of the car.  Coronavirus didn't scare her as much as the prospect of fulminant hepatic failure from hepatitis A.  I cajoled her out of the car and into the tiny eatery.  I had almost convinced her to try one taco from the place.  They were the best tacos in Houston after all.  But, the deal breaker for me was the fact that they only served goat.  Just goat.  All day long.  Goat.  That particular Saturday was goat day.  The Saturday before had been beef day.  Saved by the lack of variety in their hooved animal meats, we ventured onward.  

Less than a mile away was another establishment, Tacos El Jaibo (http://www.tacoseljaibotx.com).  Ita was slightly reluctant because the name of their restaurant translates into The Crab Tacos and I have an allergy to shellfish.  When the waitress convinced her that we could get something other than crabs, shrimp, or oysters we decided to stay and that one decision has revolutionized our lives.  One bite into our quesabirrias and our palates would never be the same.  Any other taco is peasantry compared to these tiny, yet mighty meaty-cheesy wonders.  While the dipping sauce is made from goat stew, the flavor is salty and tangy and rich and there is hardly a hint of gaminess.  If someone handed you a straw, you'd suck it down in one sip.  My mom, typically, ordered every kind of meat other than beef; mollejas (beef pancreas, which, admittedly are crunchy and tasty), borrega (lamb), cabrito (goat) and I stuck to res (beef).  We also ordered 2 cups of posole (stew made with pork and hominy) and a side of freshly made guacamole and chips.  As much as we wanted to, we couldn't finish our food.  The fact that there are dollar tacos on Wednesdays and their masking, social distancing, and hand-sanitizing practices makes this place a 10/10!  Fat and happy, we waddled home.  

Tacos El Jaibo on Bellaire Blvd

Dollar tacos!  What's not to love? 

Fresh guacamole and home made chips

Posole

Birrias tacos

They are surprisingly filling!

Last Wednesday we journeyed down 225 to Pasadena and, folks, this was a trip worth taking!  The waitress at the first restaurant (Teotihuacan) had told us that birria tacos were from a city in Mexico called San Luis Potosi.  I don't think this is accurate but when we searched for tacos San Luis Potosi style, this is what we found: Taqueria y Neveria San Luis (https://taqueria-sanluis.com).  This is a tiny little establishment that is has plexiglass-separated booths and well spaced out tables w/ ample bottles of hand sanitizer and a strict mask-wearing policy.  Of course we sampled their birria tacos as well as there sopes. The borracho beans had tiny pieces of hot-dogs floating in them and it reminded my of the juevos con weenies my Abuelita used to make me in the summer when I'd stay with her in Laredo.  The cole slaw was revolutionary; freshly shredded cabbage, chopped cilantro, diced tomatoes, and lime juice.  I could have eaten a plate full of just this and my own attempt to replicate it was modest at best.  This place is Mexican Baskin-Robbins with at least 31 flavors and a rainbow of different paletas and ice cream made on the spot.  If nothing else, the paletas and ice cream are worth the drive.  After our meal we each ordered a paleta, Ita a fresa y crema and mine was a fresa, kiwi y durazno con crema.  We were good and only took a couple of bites just to sample.  We're gonna have to go back with a freezer full of dry ice to haul back several dozen paletas.  

Tacos birrias

Sopes

So many flavors and so little time

Even more flavors...

Lots of wall art

The booths separated by plexiglass 

Ice cream counter

Wearing our masks

Dine or to-go options

Beanie weenies

Artful and delicious

All in all the food was great but the company was even better.  The pandemic has made all of our circles smaller and, for me, it's been a good thing.  

Little Silos Everywhere

Little Silos Everywhere

written November 2019

Sometimes we sock ourselves in - into our silos.  I'm doing it right now.  Like Jesus in the desert.  Siloing is not recreational.  It's not a vacation or an escape from reality.  It's hard, ugly work.  What's that show that guy does about life's dirtiest jobs?  This is a dirty job because you have to stare face-to-face with your ugliest bits, persistently, for a really long time.  When you stare at something for that long and that up-close, things get distorted. My flaws take disproportionate priority.  And I chip away at them and then I get the sandpaper out and try to smooth out the edges.  I've never had a facial peel, but afterwards, before you get that youthful glow and skin as fresh as a baby's bottom, your face looks like you just swam in a pool of agent orange.  My soul feels like it's getting a facial peel.  Good stuff.  

Once upon a time, a parent of mine commented that it must be very hard to strive for perfection and to fall short.  At the time, it felt like a pot-shot.  "Whoa!", I thought.  "From whence does this critical appraisal spring?" But he was spot-on.  Spring, sprang, sprung.  That serpent liked to have sprang up and struck me.  So I sprung back, recoiled (if you will), and I've been wrastling that wirey beast for the longest.  It ain't no fun.  He come up (the serpent that is) and promised me he'd give me a life of luxury if I just threw in the towel.  He tol' me that I just needed to worry about myself and my young ones could take care of themselves.  Besides, they were spoilt and ungrateful anyhow.  That's what he (that serpent) tol' me.  I liked what he was saying because it was sugary sweet and it felt good down in my soul.  I could lick my wounds and he promised he'd be my best friend.  

He's a big fat liar and I know it.  He ain't getting me that easy.  He's tried but I'm gonna eat me some snake stew.  Pitiful.  You cannot let your young 'uns run you over. They will try and try and for a while but they got their brains hijacked and mis-wired and mis-firing.  So you gotta kick that serpent to the curb and put the heel of your boot down on him nice and firm and for a really long time.  When he stops twitching, then you can make your snake stew.  Hang that skin on the wall.  

My daughter is everything yours is not.  She's street smart and mouthy (in a good way and a bad way), wicked and funny, sharp as a tack, fearless, vulnerable, frustrating, beautiful, ugly, easy, difficult, loving, full of hate, loyal, treacherous and mine, all mine.  She's been in her silo and I've been in mine.  They aren't conjoined but there is Habitrail, clear, acrylic tubing connecting us.  Sometimes we carry our feces back and forth in that plastic tubing.  It can get stinky and smelly in there.  Sometimes we'll hunker down in the shavings next to each other.  We've bitten each other before.  She sends me back to my silo and I send her back to hers.  I haven't given her the keys to the Barbie convertible but she's been out in her hamster wheel.  You might have seen her bumping into shit.  I love that jimmy-leg walking little girl.  I love her laughter.  I love her interpretive dance.  I love her mind.  It's a good, solid mind and it's full of insight and humor and forgiveness and goodness.  It's still figuring things out (where can this hamster wheel take me?).  She's battling her own serpent and mourning the loss of her own imperfections.  Sister, you'll do that all damn day, every damn day for the rest of your life.  Some days you'll forget for a little while and cut loose but then you'll realize the soundtrack is on repeat.  Trust me.  Some days you give yourself more grace.  Some days you give others more grace.  Mercy.  Trust me.  My daughter is just like your daughter.  

Last night I had two semi-recurring dreams.  In one, I'm driving uncontrollably down a road.  I can't stop and I don't know where I'm going but it's fast and reckless and there is no end.  In the other, I'm up against forces of evil cloaked in goodness.  She's with me in both dreams and I have to protect her but in the first, I'm helpless and in the second, I'm ineffective.  But when I wake up, I understand; they were just dreams.  I do step on the brakes.  I am present to help her interpret intentions.  And when we have to silo, we silo.  So she can have the freedom to be her; safely, with the guard rails up, without judgment and in the protection of her silo.  She's not Rapunzel.  It's not captivity.  There won't be a Rumspringa.  She's got this.  And I've got her.  Glorious, wonderful, beautiful, hilarious, wickedly smart, amazingly her.  

Dayum, I love that girl.  What a treasure.  I frustrating, marvelous, magnificent treasure.