It was shortly after my 11th birthday and my best friend’s mom had just picked us up from guitar class. I didn't take guitar lessons, but my friend, Ellen did. Occasionally I tagged along and watched her progress through the glass door of the classroom. I'd wanted to take the class, but my mother said, "No deal. You quit piano lessons two weeks into it. If you want to learn the guitar, save your money, buy a guitar from the second-hand store and teach yourself. If you have any musical talent you'll be able to teach yourself."
"Don't worry I'll teach you. Just as soon as I learn. And you can practice on my guitar." Good old Ellen. Ellen was a full year older than me. Within the year Ellen discovered boys and they discovered her. That marked the end of her interest in the guitar.
Ellen's mom was slender and petite, just about the same height as me at the time. She was a pretty Irish woman who served as a bailiff in the juvenile court system. I always found that to be funny since the kids she was ushering around must have been twice her size. Ellen inherited both her mother's pretty face and her father's tall statuesque physique. Ellen towered over both her mother and me.
Ellen's mom wasn't much like the other kids' mothers I knew. They were mostly stay-at-home moms, she worked. They were soft and round, she was lean and active. They were trite and insincere, she was forthright and honest. They were old-fashioned, she was hip. They cleaned and cooked, she did neither. If she answered the door when I arrived, she'd kick the toys belonging to Ellen's younger brothers and sisters out of the way as she ushered me inside, chatting amiably all the while. There was a perpetual pile or two of clothing in need of laundering sitting on the floor near the staircase, waiting to be taken downstairs to the laundry room, the beds were unmade and the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes and she'd be giving Ellen instructions on how to prepare some simple casserole or one-pot dish. However, inactive she was not. The only time I saw her sit was when she was driving the car, chauffeuring Ellen and me somewhere.
The park building where Ellen took her guitar lessons was in Chicago's Uptown neighborhood, and that day, when her mother picked us up she proclaimed, "I'm starving! Say Ranell, have you ever had a taco? Ellen, I know you haven't. It's a Mexican sandwich, of sorts. I know a great place right near here. How about it, girls, are you up for trying one? I think you'll enjoy it."
It's hard to fathom it now, but back in 1963 the Mexican restaurant business in the U.S. was still in it's infancy. Salsa was an almost unheard of product, then available mostly in the southwest part of the States, or in urban-area groceries where hispanics shopped.
Ellen's mother told us she'd tried tacos on a business trip she'd made a couple of years earlier to California. "Imagine my delight to find this little spot here," she told us as she parked the car near the northeast corner of Lawrence Avenue and Sheridan Road. It was late in the afternoon and the place was empty except for the young man and woman, I took to be a husband and wife, who were behind the counter. Ellen's mother directed us to seats at the counter of the small storefront restaurant. She ordered for us. In a short time, the man placed plates containing one beef taco each in front of us. It didn't look like any sandwich I'd ever seen.
Before me sat a round stiff shell of some type, folded in half and holding cooked meat that somewhat resembled my mom's leftover pot roast. Across the top of the meat I saw a few sliced onions. Next to my taco was a small small bowl of a green sauce I would come to know later as salsa verde. On the counter the man had also placed a small cup of sliced lime wedges. I looked over and watched as Ellen's mom spooned some of the green sauce over the meat and onions, then picked up a lime and gave a quick squeeze over the "taco." Then she picked the whole thing up and took a bite. I did exactly what she did. My mouth was immediately filled with a combination of savory deliciousness that was salty, acidic, and crunchy, all at once. It was after I'd chewed and swallowed that I felt the heat of the peppers, that tingle to my pain receptors that made my brain quickly reassure me, "Don't be concerned, this is good pain." I turned to look at Ellen's mom. She laughed at my expression, "Good, huh? I knew you'd like it!"
My life became a quest to reproduce the experience of that seemingly deliciously simple and innovative mini-meal.
The meat was melt-in-your-mouth, with sweet bits of crusty caramelization on the ends. The tortilla, which is what Ellen's mom called the round "bread" with which our sandwich was made. It was made with corn masa and had been flash fried to make a crisp shell that almost shattered upon bite. The onions were sweeter than the kind my mom used at home and added an interesting contrast of flavor to the meat. The lime juice added tang, and that "salsa" with it's hot, jalapeƱo-based brine… well, all I can say is that it all came together in wonderful harmony in my mouth. Crunchy, salty, sweet, juicy, savory tang with an addictive after effect of heat that rushed from my mouth straight to my brain.
I tried tacos in various parts of Mexico, at street-side taquerias here in the U.S. in a valiant attempt to replicate the taste. I made tacos in my own home. Yet no taco compared with the taco that Ellen's mother bought for me that day. I came to accept that, just like a first kiss, it was a lovely and distinctive part of my memory, that was not meant to be replicated.
***
Sometimes I grill a steak that's been marinaded in "Mexican" spices. Not as often I cook chicken or fish. Tonight I've opted for pork, which I braised four hours in apple cider that was awash in chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, white onion, garlic, salt and pepper and a splash of tequila, rendering a meat that is so juicily tender as to melt in your mouth - and in honor of my first taco, tonight there will be no cheese, sour cream or tomatoes adorning these tacos. I made some tortilla chips and guacamole, to enhance but not replicate that first experience. And we'll wash these tacos down with fresh-squeezed lime margaritas on the rocks (also missing that first time.)
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| juicy cider-braised pork |
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| fresh limes for margaritas - the only way to go |
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| braised meat with onion - simple |
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| Glass from Lalo's in Oak Park - I purchased it :) |
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| steak taco meat - it still has those caramelized bits |
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| Flank steak getting ready to marinade |
Happy October 4, National Taco Day! (Only in America. I love this country!)
