|
Here is a delicious cheesesteak for absolutely no reason.
|
|
|
|
| Decided to take a week off. Did I miss anything? |
|
|
|
|
Is a dish that reaches acronym status kind of like a celebrity who has transcended last names?
You’ve
got the classic (BLT, Cher), the hip (XLB, Björk) and the niche (CFS,
Wynonna), but one of the things I learned when I moved to Phoenix is
that the specifics are very much a regional phenomenon. Because even in
Arizona, where everybody thinks they know everything about Mexican food,
asking about CESJ earned me nothing but blank stares. Worse, 99.95% of
those stares remained unchanged when I explained what CESJ stands for.
That’d
be carne en su jugo. It’s a Jaliscan dish that can range from soupy to
stewy depending on the preparation, but generally speaking it’s
comprised of chopped carne asada along with beans, bacon and some fresh
veg like radish and onion suspended in a beef-based consommé that can
but needn’t be skewed red with a touch of chile de arbol or green with a shot of tomatillo.
It’s a dish I’m particularly fond of for a whole mess of reasons. So let me back up a bit.
|
|
|
|
|
When
citing their influences, writers love to trot out famous authors and
titanic works peppered with a smattering of somewhat esoteric but highly
regarded favorites. And I could throw out known commodities both
expected (Jean-Georges Vongerichten) and unexpected (Roger Ebert), but
honestly, the single biggest influence on every bit of food writing I’ve
done for the past 15 years — and it isn’t close — was a single piece
posted on a community food board on February 26, 2006 by Rob Lopata, aka
“Pigmon.”
LTH Forum – Carne en su Jugo
I mean, c’mon... just look at that. LOOK AT IT. In 2006, no less.
Pig’s
post had everything — obsessive food geek enthusiasm, laser focus on an
underappreciated international dish, a deep dive into its provenance
and preparation, an embrace of all variants and styles rather than a
compulsion to define one as “correct,” a commitment to pounding the
pavement to taste and catalogue and actually talk to the people who make
the dish, charts and graphs that carefully lay out all of the
findings, and a lengthy list of thorough descriptions to add color and
life to the best of the bunch.
Dude,
I'm not going to name names, but there are wildly popular Phoenix food
publications — both amateur and professional — that have spent less time
doing serious, thoughtful, boots-on-the-ground research over the course
of their entire existence
than Pig did for this single post. And if you’ve ever wondered why I
had this burning compulsion to furiously over-research everything I
wrote for The Republic and why every published piece still left me with a
crippling sense of inadequacy, welp... there you go. That post changed
me.
Anyway,
CESJ has been on my hot list since landing in the greater Phoenix
metropolitan area 11 years ago, and with this week's discovery, my
roster of CESJ-slinging restaurants has doubled... to two.
With the understanding that it’s a matter of stylistic preference, this is what I’m looking for:
|
|
|
|
|
With
apologies for the tease, that’s the CESJ at Taqueria Los Gallos #2, on
Chicago’s near south side. Someday CESJ will catch fire and explode into
the mainstream and YouTubers will act like they’ve been into it all
along and former resort chefs will open CESJ shops in Old Town
Scottsdale and I’ll scream and lose my mind every time an amateurish
food writer describes it as “Mexican Pho.” But you can see why some
people have made that brutally clumsy comparison (lack of noodles
notwithstanding). In my ideal world, I’m hunting for that glassy clean
but full-flavored consommé — so clear you can almost see straight
through to the bottom — cradling all sorts of goodies with a side of
searing chile sauce to spike it up and a handful of fresh tortillas for
folding and dunking.
|
|
|
|
|
In Phoenix, I first came across CESJ in 2012. Tortas Ahogadas Guadalajara,
a fairly well-known Chandler institution, challenged my Chicago-centric
notions of what constitutes CESJ by offering a kind of stewy version
that — while composed to order like the bowls I’ve come to know — is
thicker, less brothy, rougher around the edges and lacking that crisp,
clean clarity of the CESJ I’ve come to love.
This week, however, I trucked out to Tolleson to check out Tortas Ahogadas George. And we aren't where I'd like to be yet, but we’re edging closer:
|
|
|
|
|
This
one’s cloudy and a little viscous and it tastes more of tomatillo than
beef. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that George isn’t plunking
a cow’s head in a giant stock pot back there. But unlike Tortas
Ahogadas Guadalajara’s, it’s undeniably a soup, and it comes a lot
closer to the stuff I adore. I don’t think it would catch Pig’s fancy
and my attraction is more academic than amorous. But it’s a slurpable
rendition of a dish that’s really difficult to find in Arizona, and that
right there is the kind of progress I can geek out on.
The search continues. CESJ’s moment is coming. Someday.
|
|
|
|
|
Sure, Fine, Don't Listen To Me, Whatever, I Don't Care
|
|
|
|
|
I heard how many dinners Lom Wong sold last week.
I am deeply disappointed in all of you. (Except you. You know who you are.)
|
|
|
|
|
Clockwise
from left: Laap Muang — minced pork, Northern Thai herbs, phak fai,
garlic, crispy shallot | Jin Toop — Smashed beef with
galangal chile paste | Tom Som Gai — herbal soup with
chicken, makrut lime leaf, lemongrass, chile pepper, tomato and shallots
|
|
|
|
|
You
could have had a stellar Northern-style laap — a savory cousin to the
sweet-tart Southern versions you know, heavily herbed and laden with
crisp shallots and garlic. You could have had jin toop — marinated beef
pounded tender, served with sticky rice and dusted with a wildly
fragrant mix of chiles and dried galangal. You could have washed it all
down with a bowl of delicate tom som gai, mellow and smooth with a
gentle lift from lemongrass and lime leaf.
Eventually you’re going to get around to trying this. And when you do, you’re going to hate yourself for not doing it sooner.
Prove me wrong.
|
|
|
|
|
My heart breaks a little extra these days when I think of Chrysa Robertson, Silvana Salcido Esparza and Jeff Smedstad.
All three were James Beard finalists for “Best Chef — Southwest” this year. And in case you missed the whole fiasco,
the foundation reportedly voted on this year’s award nominees, compiled
their list of winners, didn’t like how that list turned out, then
declined to publish it with the explanation that now just wasn’t a good
time because of the pandemic.
There
are a lot of legitimate issues in play, and a lot of important
discussions that need to happen. But I don’t feel like it’s going out on
a limb to say that the first step has to be honesty.
In
any case, one of the practical effects is that the results of this
year’s voting are forever locked away, and you have a whole bunch of
nominees who will never know whether or not they won.
Not
that Chrysa strikes me as the type to spend the rest of her days pining
for the James Beard Award that might have been. I mean, everybody loves
recognition. But she’s got shit to do.
|
|
|
|
|
Toast — chanterelles with goat cheese on ciabatta, farm egg salad on brioche, olives, cornichons
|
|
|
|
|
Rancho Pinot falls
under the (far too long) list of places I’m trying to support right
now, not leastways because Chrysa has taken extreme pains to do things
as responsibly as possible while fighting to keep her doors open. She
recently brought the dining room back online — no choice, like so many
others — but thankfully, there’s still curbside, and we snagged dinner a
couple of weeks ago.
I feel stupid getting so hot and bothered about freaking egg salad, but her egg salad.
I
know, I know, I’m a food geek and it’s the chanterelles on the other
end of the plate that are supposed to be what gets me all twitterpated,
but there’s some kind of magical mojo in those creamy, lumpy eggs,
loaded onto a slab of toasty brioche.
In
the spirit of the season, I dug a grilled butternut salad with lentils
and pepitas, but the squash dish that stole my heart was a pile of roasted kabocha and delicata, sliding around in a nutty slick of tahini and dusted with crisp sesame-lime dukka.
|
|
|
|
|
Clockwise
from top left: Roasted red kabocha and delicata squash, tahini,
sesame-lime dukka | Nonni's Sunday chicken — braised thighs,
mushrooms, onion, white wine, herbs, crispy polenta, Italian cheese
mix | Pan-roasted fish — roasted cauliflower, green beans,
romesco sauce
|
|
|
|
|
Lamb
chops were tender and smoky, braced with the bright herbal pop of mint
pesto and bedded down on a pile of creamy beans. A perfect piece
of roasted fish doesn't need much — just some simple veg and a
dollop of romesco.
And
there is nothing so unfussy as Nonni’s Sunday chicken. I don’t know if
the mother stock survived Rancho Pinot’s hiatus, but either way this is
still just perfect — a saucy lemon- and rosemary-scented concoction that
just tastes like home. And what could travel better than gently stewed
chicken thighs with thick slabs of polenta?
Rancho Pinot, still killing it.
|
|
|
|
|
Speaking
of which, my dining lately has been less of the exploratory variety
(CESJ quests to the West Valley notwithstanding) and more of the
greatest hits variety, which is nice for me, even if it isn’t as
conducive to my usual brand of food writing.
Still, just in case you could use a reminder, here are some assorted old favorites I’ve recently devoured:
|
|
|
|
|
Doug Robson’s (in)famous Naco Torta from Gallo Blanco
— carne asada piled high on tender house telera with a healthy smear of
tart, spicy aji amarillo aioli and a sticky, oozing torrent of golden
umami bliss courtesy of a pair of sunny side up eggs. Yup... still kicks
ass.
A bowl of buttery miso ramen from Hot Noodles, Cold Sake
— built on muscular noodles and Josh Hebert’s rich stock, plied with
the sweet pop of fresh corn kernels and slabs of creamy chashu with a
gorgeous tender bite. Yup... still kicks ass.
The pride and joy of NakedQ
— where Oren Hartman works his magic and coaxes barbecued bliss out of
some seriously stellar brisket, leaving a tender slick of succulent beef
fat on the tongue and a heady whiff of smoke that fills your cranium.
Yup... still kicks ass.
|
|
|
|
|
As if I needed more reasons to love the guy.
Folks,
it’s bad out there. Really bad. And it’s rapidly getting worse. And I
am fucking done with this and you are fucking done with this and
spoiler: we are ALL just completely fucking done with this. But it is
sooooooo not done with us.
We’re
all making tough choices — school, friends, family. But restaurants
don’t have to be one of them. Pick it up, tip like you just won the
lottery, take it home, and put it on a plate yourself. Until vaccines
are widely distributed and we can drive this monster into the ground,
that small sacrifice will literally save lives. It's just the truth.
|
|
|
|
|
Not
trying to be a scold. Just a friendly reminder that where restaurants
are concerned, we don’t have to choose. We can support the restaurant
community and contribute to practices that will save lives at the same time.
Please stay safe, everybody.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
