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.