It was Christmas. In Mexico. Mister and I were there with friends and we all went out for a big lunch. Me being me, I had to try something unfamiliar. And when I saw “Chiles en Nogada” on the menu, I knew I had to have it.
Do you have food memories? A lot of us do. Sometimes that particular sense memory is tied to childhood. Maybe your grandmother made something that you think of as being part of her. Maybe you took a trip somewhere and had something once, something so divine you can still recall not only the food, but the details of where you ate it. I have so many food memories, it’s bananas. My granny’s biscuits. The time she made chittlins and the pressure cooker lid blew off, lodging those animal parts all over the kitchen ceiling. Turtle stew at Mr. and Mrs. Melvin’s house. Those are only a few of my childhood food memories, and I’m not even going into adult food memories. I’m a food dork. What can I say?
So back to Christmas in Mexico and those stuffed poblano chiles with walnut sauce and pomegranate seeds. It’s a holiday dish in Mexico. It’s special. And on that particular afternoon, it was magical. The sweet and savory were perfectly balanced and unexpected. Though everyone else had ordered small dishes, I sat there with my large platter and feasted. (I did offer to share.) By the time lunch was finished, that meal had taken its place in my sense memory banks and I knew it.
Cut to a recent evening in L.A. Mister and I were having dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Beverly Hills. They were celebrating Mexican Independence (from Spain), and as such had decided to add a special item to their menu for the month: Chiles en Nogada. Well. You can just imagine my excitement. I mean, I’d not had that dish since that fateful Christmas when I’d first learned of its existence. Naturally, I ordered as fast as I could and sat there with my fork in my hand, impatiently waiting.
And then the plate was placed before me. Not as pretty as I’d had in Mexico, but that was okay. The proof is in the pudding, as they (whoever “they” are) say. So I dug in.
Friends, I should have known better. I should have known not to expect angels singing and golden rays of light. I mean, you can’t go home again. Food memories have “memory” right in the danged title. And if those reasons aren’t enough, I should have known better when I saw the canned peaches spread out on the plate. Canned! In the middle of summer! When stone fruit is practically falling on our heads!
The dish was a disaster. The sauce was so sweet, it was more suited to a dessert. And the pork filling was so sweet, it was more suited to the trash. I left most of it on my plate and was grateful for chips and salsa.
I’ve found a recipe for Chiles en Nogada and will probably try it out in a couple of months, once the weather cools. Until then, memory serves as a reminder of a lovely December lunch in Mexico. I can still see the courtyard, with its colorful tiles and deep green foliage. And that beautiful, beautiful dish before me…
Deer Hunter’s Pie. We saw a recipe for this 25 years ago in a cookbook that had never failed either of us up to that point. Unusual for us, we followed it scrupulously mainly because the investment in special ingredients was more than our meager, bohemian lifestyles and pocketbooks would normally have merited. It smelled wonderful and was absolutely foul…like, I imagine, lumps of rehydrated and then baked dry and then slightly rehydrated again casserole of cow pats. With cheese.
“Maybe it is better the second day,” we thought, wrongly.
No matter what crime against cuisine either of us commits or is subjected to from without, we can always sugar coat it with the compliment, “well, it’s not Deer Hunter’s Pie.”
Awesome! I mean, you know, in a terrible sort of way. It is funny how things like that become stories that stick.