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!