la super-rica

And so I return to the blogosphere after a fantastic vacation out west. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the opportunity to post out there, I just didn’t know where to begin. I will do my best to sum everything up throughout the week, which will be a nice way to focus on things like driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, while trying to ignore the miserable weather we returned to.

Today I want to talk about food. I love to eat, always have. Growing up in Washington, D.C. (a mediocre food city) I always had the feeling that there was something better out there, somewhere… When my dad took me to New Orleans for the first time my hunch was confirmed. He taught me an important lesson that still rings true today: often the best places to eat are in sketchy neighborhoods and might not be so clean, but are always worth it. If on the way there you felt like you were in the beginning of a Law Order episode, you’re on the right track. If the water is a little cloudy, you know you’re in for a good, no BS meal. My life changed the day I had my first soft-shell crab po’ boy; it probably cost less than $5.

I have a hard time relating to people that don’t have a passion for some kind of food. Now when I remember places I’ve lived or visited it’s always the food I think of first. Except for Iowa, which makes me think of cheap alcohol. My dairy “issues” are so bad at this point that even thinking about a pie-shake doubles me over.

One of the crucial aspects of our marriage is that Julia and I share nearly identical tastes in food. As soon as we’re alone after a meal out with friends one of us will say “That was terrible” or “How about that shrimp?” and the other will nod in silent agreement. At this point we’re in a zone, like a second basement and shortstop that have been turning double plays for years. That is not to say, however, that there isn’t a little friction involved. We have taken the process of ordering (and trying to manipulate the other to order accordingly) to a level of psychological manipulation that would make any military interrogator proud. On more than one such occasion I’ve found myself reduced to the mental state of a selfish toddler, whispering “I’m not sharing!” a little too loud.

We only disagree on two main points:

1. Julia loves anchovies (which I find revolting) and
2. I love Mexican food (which Julia claims makes her sick)

In every city I’ve lived in there has been a decent Mexican restaurant or taqueria. Even in Iowa there was a surprisingly good place about a half an hour out of town. The only thing I really miss about Boston is Anna’s Taqueria – I ate two meals there in the less than 48 hours I was in town last fall. Yet New York City has, to the best of my knowledge, surprisingly depressing options for Mexican food. You’re either eating at a glorified Taco Bell or paying $15 for a plate of bland chicken molé.

The flip side to this is that in my time in NYC I have discovered and fallen in love with Puerto Rican food, which is similar, but not the same thing. Since we’ve lived in Carroll Gardens, Smith Street has turned into Brooklyn’s restaurant row, but despite all the trendy new places I still think the best food is at the dumpy old Puerto Rican joint, El Nuevo Cibao. I’ll take a plate of pernil, red beans, yellow rice and maduros over Pad Thai, techno and hip décor any day.

Once I knew we were going to California I began dreaming about all the good Mexican food my ex-Californian friends are always telling me about. Everybody always said the same thing: the best thing to do is find random little places. The last time I was in California we were too rushed to find good Mexican food, but I was introduced to In-N-Out, which fortunately lived up to all the hype.

When we arrived in Santa Barbara the word on the street was that La Super-Rica Taqueria was THE place to eat. I managed to con Julia, who was distracted by the city’s lush vegetation and panoramic views, into walking about thirty blocks to find the place. Hot, sweaty and absolutely starving, when we finally found the little blue shack, a hand-written sign on the door said “closed Wednesday.” Devastated, I brought my increasingly agitated wife to a random Mexican restaurant a couple of blocks away. There I had a chopped, marinated pork burrito (enchilada style) that absolutely floored me. Even though it was spicy enough that it took two Pacificos and three glasses of water to get it down, I didn’t want it to end.

Later that night visiting family friends I mentioned our unsuccessful journey. Their eyes lit up when they talked about La Super-Rica and they mentioned that musicians always eat there when they come to town. The legend continued to grow. Having done my fare share of traveling and performing with bands, I know that other than maybe cab drivers NO ONE knows how to find the real food better than musicians. My mouth started watering on the spot.

The next day I used a Jedi mind trick on Julia and convinced her to return. I almost rear-ended someone while parallel-parking, foaming at the mouth in anticipation. Despite dirt-cheap prices and an enjoyable picnic-like setting, La Super-Rica failed to live up to what I now realize were unrealistic expectations. I kept ordering more and more food, but eventually gave up. The meat was well-seasoned, but the options were all variations on the same thing: some sort of meat and cheese in tortillas. The best thing I had was the coffee horchata. Overall, the food was good, but the previous day’s meal was much better. I guess everybody was right: the random places really are the best ones. Fortunately I documented the previous day’s burrito (above) and ate at In-N-Out on consecutive days in Orange County. I get knocked down, but I get up again.