Chile Nights In New Mexico: Santa Fe, Part Two

It was once said of Hamlet:
"[t]hough this be madness, yet there is method in it." Something similar can be said of New Mexico: "Though this be desert, yet there are bagels in it." Sunday morning, we breakfasted at Linda's boyfriend David's apartment, where there was delicious hickory-flavored Cafe du Monde coffee from New Orleans and a cornucopia of bagels from Bagelmania. In a just universe, you can't call your restaurant Bagelmania without being a maniac about bagels, and bagel maniacs tend to produce good bagels.

Fortunately, this is a just universe, or at least it is just when it counts: at breakfast. There was lox, peppers, onion, different forms of cream cheese, some with scallions--I think that's what it was, but I could be wrong. In any case, it was delicious. [Marina: It should be noted here that my friend Linda is from New York, and like all good New Yorkers, knows how to do bagels right, with the full spread. There was a Green Chile bagel flavor in deference to our presence in Santa Fe, and it might have been quite good, but the notion offended my classist bagel tendencies. I have always taken bagels seriously, by the way. I'm the girl who doggedly searched most of Europe in the 90s for a decent bagel, before Europe was finally bagel-vangelized this past decade.]

Also, we nearly convinced David's children that pumpernickel bagels taste like chocolate. I've never been clear on what exactly pumpernickel is. Once I stopped confusing it with the Scarlet Pimpernel, I was left with the impression that it tastes like pumpkin or liverwurst. I'm pretty sure it doesn't.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON:

After a sojourn north to the Pojoaque reservation to watch a local tribe celebrating the Feast Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, a fascinating blend of native dancing and costumes with Catholic imagery and sprays of pine needles, we met two of Linda's friends at a BBQ bar named Cowgirl in Santa Fe.

To go with a delicious nut brown ale from Santa Fe Brewery, I chose an appetizer of Chicken Wang Dangs, thereby violating my lifelong principle of preferring to have my tongue ripped out rather than eating anything called "Wang Dang." They were quite greasy and hot, and I couldn't finish them, but they were totally acceptable, although as always with chicken wings, I couldn't help but feel like I was leaving food behind because of the meat that stuck to the bones. You never get as much food as you think you will, because you always forget about the bones until you take your first bite. [I had the posole, which is New Mexican stew with hominy, and the hearty and spicy dish was perfect for a California low-lander adjusting once again to the high altitude, cold and wind of northern New Mexico.]

The waiter, dressed in jeans and flannel, kept coming over to ask, "Who's ready for another whiskey?" As no one was drinking whiskey, that is apparently a standard Santa Fe greeting. I think I could love this town.

SUNDAY NIGHT, PRE-PRANDIAL DRINK:

Prior to meeting Linda and David for dinner, Marina and I wandered around the twisting, narrow side streets off the plaza in Santa Fe, past the cute yet pricey shops, until, like Odysseus without the benefit of being lashed to the mast with a crew with their ears plugged with wax, we heard the siren call of The Matador [or as Devin is too nice to say, I dragged him down there. One can only endure so much tasteful art, adobe architecture and wide-open, big-sky landscapes for so long in a single day.]:





























The Matador, a (literally) underground punk bar in Santa Fe, was appealingly dark and grungy, with one narrow bar and no tables. Clearly, the only thing to do was order shots of Patron silver tequila, which arrived in pint glasses. If that's not edgy and awesome, I don't know what is. However Linda later pointed out that a New Yorker who spent time in real punk rock clubs, the Matador is not a totally legit punk bar, because all the tattered posters on the wall for concerts were neatly framed. Still, salt, lime, tequila, on a cold December evening. You can't argue with that. Plus, the bartender gave us our drinks and then totally ignored us. See? Edgy.

SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER AT MARIA'S

What do you get when you go to a restaurant that has been running since the 1950s and literally wrote the book on great margaritas? Brilliant sopapillas, obviously. Yes, the margaritas were excellent, and they offered a great price on a 3-tequila flight [one silver, one reposado, one anejo. I enjoyed getting schooled by David who offered insights into tequila versus mezcal, and why Patron is over-rated. Oops! My favorite was the reposado.]

Yes, the food was also tasty. [I had the chicken adobo cooked in chile spices, a bit too spicy but quite tasty. Devin had chicken tostados, I was rather impressed at his boldness given I'd always perceived tostado-eaters as advanced.]

But what I remember most are the sopapillas, the light and fluffy pastries drizzled in honey that could put beignets to shame for amazing desserts.


For one thing, they don't have the danger of powdered sugar, and if you don't think powdered sugar is dangerous, you haven't tried eating a beignet under an air conditioning unit going full blast in Fort Collins, Colorado, in the middle of summer. Trust me, you don't want to know what I've seen in my life.

MONDAY BREAKFAST:

On Monday, we were set to drive north to Taos, which I will describe in a later blog. But before we left, we needed a hearty breakfast, which was to be found in the heart of Santa Fe at Cafe Pasqual's. I assume it is the heart of Santa Fe, because it is near the plaza, and because that is the area where I spent most of my visit. If I was there, it must be the heart of Santa Fe.


Words can't do justice to the breakfast burrito I had there.

The first exposure I had to breakfast burritos was in Missoula, when Ben, Vaughn and I would trek twenty yards across an autumnal walkway on campus to Mama Zoola's, where we would order hot bundles of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and onions, which, when seats were not available there, we would port back across the way to Knowles Hall, tracking muddy water and crumpled leaves into the lobby.

Now picture that brilliance infused with a kick of chile, wrapped in a tortilla seared ever so slightly, and you get this:



The other reason why I'll always remember Cafe Pasqual's is that it features the world's tiniest bathrooms and hallways. Seriously. There is a main door into a small 'hall', off of which are the doors to each restroom. I almost literally filled up that hall. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, or Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians. You couldn't open the door to the men's bathroom without having the door to the dining room open at the same time.

As a final Santa Fe culinary note, I went to a local bookstore, bought gifts and a hot chocolate, which I drank on a bench in the wintry plaza on a lazy Monday morning with an accordion player doing his thing. That was quite peaceful and lovely.

Next, on to Taos!

Chile Nights In New Mexico: Santa Fe, Part One

New Mexico, a state slathered in Christmas, desert sun, and colonialism. Marina and I took a trip to Santa Fe and Taos from last Saturday through Tuesday, and saw a lot of all that. But this blog is about food, so we're not going to tell you anything about that other stuff. At least, not here. You'll have to look for my other blog to read about that. Shameless plug? Yes.

But if you were feeling a bit depressed over missing the desert sun shining against colonial buildings where Indians sell intricate artwork, right across the Santa Fe plaza with the monument to "Federal Soldiers who died in battle against Indians," you'll be glad to know I've finally convinced Marina to share her thoughts on our culinary traveling. [Marina: Yes, here I am, at last contributing to a post! New Mexico is a foodie mecca, and I'd been craving another visit for a fix of posole, sopapillas and anything involving chiles, so it was great to be able to introduce Devin's virgin Montana palate to these delicacies.]

SATURDAY LUNCH:

Driving north from Albuquerque (which has a Weird Al Yankovic song named for it but is surprisingly not the capital of New Mexico), we chose to shun the direct route of I-25 and take the Turquoise Trail on a scenic winding route through a resurrected coal-mining town of Madrid--no, pronounced the other way.

There was talk of meeting Marina's friend Linda in 'MAD-rid' at a biker bar, but having woken much earlier than a decent hour, then starved by the delights of air travel, we were way too hungry to wait that long. A bend in the road brought us to the Cedar Point Grill, and we cut across six lanes of traffic to get there. No, there weren't actually six lanes, but we were hungry enough that it felt that way. [I was skeptical, but it was open. Hey, you never know.]

In the middle of nowhere, you run into family-run places like this, which I think is part of why I do love traveling and this country. John Lennon was playing on the stereo when we walked in; the ceiling was decorated with long chains of paper rings like I used to make in school; pictures of Kokopelli decorated the walls. [It was quaint, but not promising for culinary fireworks.]

"Ooo, fish and chips!" I exclaimed, on opening the menu.

"No."

"But . . ."

"No. You can't come to New Mexico and eat fish and chips."

I couldn't find a compelling argument against that theory, so instead I ordered a New Mexico Open Face sandwich, complete with chile and pictured here:


Chiles would be a predominant theme of my meals throughout the trip, which were therefore quite warm. Let's just say that if I had had any sort of head cold or congestion before the trip, it would have been incinerated. [Devin was very brave to at least temporarily give up his fish and chips meme, while I delighted in a well-executed plate of huevos rancheros.]

I've always wondered about the expression open face sandwich. I had this half-formed idea that it meant a sandwich cut in half and presented so that you saw the 'face' of the sandwich instead of the crust, the honest soul of the sandwich turned to the light. As it was, I was perplexed. Can you call it a sandwich if you have to eat it with a knife and fork? But regardless, it was tasty, and the onion rings were surprisingly good.

From there, we drove on to the Mine Shaft Tavern in "MAD-rid." The greatest T-shirt slogan I've seen in some time was there: "We Don't Have A Town Drunk. We All Take Turns." That says a lot about a Tavern that had a bull wearing a Santa hat on one wall and a refurbished coal-mine museum outside. More on this little town--which I think is the best little town I've ever seen and which practically demands a short story collection of its very own--elsewhere. I was beer-thirsty by this point, and the Mine Shaft had a good selection.

I almost selected a beer from Odells in Fort Collins, just because I had been to that brewery and because it wasn't New Belgium--not that New Belgium isn't fabulous. So I chose a local beer, Santa Fe Pale Ale, and I was quite glad I did. As with fish and chips, Denver-area beer was the past, and Marina and Santa Fe beer were the present and are the future. [awww.]

Drinking beer in a New Mexico tavern in the late afternoon while the sun sank towards the bristly hills seemed very apt. I'm not sure in what respect it was apt, but once I figure it out, I'll let you know in a popular short story or poem. In the meantime, just take it as read that it was apt. The point is, I was drinking beer with Marina in New Mexico, and in March we are going to Mexico to see the whales in a lagoon, and it is all perfect and something I would not have done without her, so that is one of the better beers I've ever had, I would have to say.


SATURDAY NIGHT:

We piled in Linda's car and entered the heart of Santa Fe, taking a quick drive past the Christmas-lit Plaza and winding up at the Rio Chama Steakhouse, across the street from the Capitol building.

The building was a cozy labyrinth of white-adobe walls, tan wooden floors and beams, with different dining areas tucked around each corner. We settled in a comfortable bar area, quiet and peaceful on a Saturday, in three big chairs around a table to the side of the fireplace, where we enjoyed appetizers and drinks.



Santa Fe was celebrating a 400th anniversary; it would have been rude of me to decline a margarita in a souvenir pint glass, right? Exactly. It was the perfect pairing with fried calamari, and the capstone to the spicy food from earlier that day. [I had a "margarita old-fashioned" which nicely blended the requisite margarita with the old-school cocktails that I usually prefer.] It was a grown-up, warm place - and a good way to wind down after our travels.