Here, Eat This! The Adventures of Kiki Maraschino

Whenever we asked people where we should go for menudo, they all said, “Pancho’s!” With an exclaimation point. And without a trace of doubt. Pancho’s looked like a giant Denny’s. There was a long line, but it moved swiftly.

Pancho’s. Pancho’s is located south of Suites Las Flores, overlooking the beach, at the end of the Las Cabanas shopping mall. Pancho’s opened with only a couple of tables. The lights would dim every time they hit the blender to make a margarita. But that was long ago. Pancho’s has grown, and grown, and grown again. It’s another local success story.

In the front of the house were samples of all of the breakfast specials. I just about cried when they came and took the menudo away.

There was more Tiki Room decor

You can stave off the hunger while you wait by buying pan dulce from a cart.

The crepes were unusual, stuffed with french toast, which wasin turn stuffed with queso fresca. The cheese was very sour, although Bob liked the strange interplay of flavors. And again with the stewed fruit.

They were sympathetic when they saw my distress over just missing the last of the menudo by that much. I asked if they just had a little broth I could try. Bless their hearts.

It was the best menudo I have ever head. The menudo here in Los Angeles consists of a heavy, smoky, beefy broth heavy on the chiles. This was a light chicken broth strongly tasting of fresh hominy and the lightest touch of tripas. It was delicious. Next time we’ll have to get there earlier.

When I went in search of the powder room I discovered the giant hall we were seated in was matched by another giant hall. And an upstairs covering the entire expanse of the building. No wonder that liine moved so quickly. And no wonder they ran out of menudo.

There was a panaderia attached to the restaurant

With some trippy cakes

I had spent the morning watching our last sunrise on the beach. I don’t know why there were easy chairs on the restroom roof

The skies reminded me of impressionist paintings

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We ate leftover sandwiches Saturday from the market for breakfast. The “Cuban” was weird — some kind of hotdog-like sausage with very sweet pork. It was slathered with a mayo-cheese nacho texture sauce. The Zurich was better, made with ham, turkey and gruyere cheese on a baguette.

We took a local ferry over to the Isla de Piedras – Stone Island – instead of taking a cheesy “Watneys Red Barrel” tour. Like when tourists talk about getting away from the tourist traps and seeing the real country – well this was getting right down to the real nitty gritty.

The ferry was tiny little boat that was floating very low in the water. We happened to get on a boat with a funeral party. Is that a bad omen?

Once on the isla, we checked out the map and started walking.

And walking, and walking. There were a lot of abandoned buildings, stray chickens and pitbulls. I had no idea if it was going to be half a mile or 10 miles to the tourist beach.

I noticed a boat on a dock with an unlucky name I had to photograph.

While on the dock, a party boat pulled up. We asked how far to the malecon (maricon, heehhee). The next thing you know, we’re swept up on the umm, “party tractor” with a bunch of college kids from Mexico City who were continuously chanting “Hey hey hey!” It was better than being stranded out in the middle of nowhere with stray rabid pitbulls.

We hit Restaurant Cardon, which had a long stretch of deserted beach. I felt like I was in a Corona commercial. They had a boat for rent, but unfortunately the sea was too churned up and the visibility to low for snorkeling.

The boat could also tow an inflatable “banana” thing that held four riders. No one wanted to suffer the indignity, not even the chanting teens. I decided the amount of tequila it would take to make it seem like a good idea was directly proportional to the amount of tequila it would take for me to fall off and be lost forever at sea.

Stray dogs wandered past, children swung a baby in a hammock, and a chicken ran around the restaurant pissing off the cooks who could never quite shoo it away for good.

The water was shallow quite a ways out, and it was fun just hanging out alone in the ocean letting the waves gently lift me off my toes and set me back down. Something pinched my little toe. Maybe I just got my toe stuck in a little tiny shell. But I really had to shake a leg to free myself.

We settled in for a lazy lunch back at the palapa. The fish tacos were unusual in that the fish was battered, fried, and then smashed into the tortilla like you would make a quesadilla, then the fillings – the usual liberal sprinkling of queso fresco, lettuce, and salsa were sprinkled on top.

Peel and eat shrimp

The traditional dish of Isla de Piedras is Fish Zarandeado. You split the fish in half and grill it.

I sniffed around to find the fish grill around back, but other than filleting, there was no action.

I asked the fish man what the fish was called. He said, “Macho.”

I asked, “Como ti?” to see if he was kidding.

He laughed and said, “Si. Como yo” with an ironic surprise that made me think he had not been thinking of that before. Later the waiter told me the fish was “mulleck”. So my final answer would have to be mullet, Alex.

One source said it is brushed with soy sauce but I couldn’t taste it. All I could taste was flaky, meaty, smoked goodness. That was the best fish I’ve eaten in a long time, especially when eaten with your fingers while your feet rest in the sand.

You can also order it fried. Here they are frying the fish

I decided drinking coconut milk from one of the coconuts piled up might be a good idea. My waiter said they weren’t at their best, but the milk was OK. He suggested a “coco loco” to liven it up. OK, what the hell. This was definitely a going with the flow day.

I watched the bartender pour in tequila, lime, beer, salt, and a little grenadine. Then he decorated it like it was a Mardi Gras float. Then they served it with a “sidecar” that was an entire pitcher to refill the coconut! I said, “I didn’t order this.”

They pointed to the coconut drink and said, “That’s the coco…” then pointed to the pitcher of tequila and danger and laughed, “and that’s the LOCO!!!” OK, I can deal with a humiliating tourist drink and not lose my dignity. But I was not in the mood to get trashed and start yelling, “hey hey hey!” so I only drank about 2/3 of a coconut. That is the official measuring system of Gilligan’s Island.

Not really sure of what to do next, we made a deal with the tour guide and soon were back on the party tractor. Hey! Hey! Hey!

Then onto the party boat. Hey! Hey! Hey!

We assumed we’d catch our own taxi, but ended up on the party taxi too. Hey! Hey! Hey! The driver didn’t want to hang a u-turn before heading to the hotel, so he surprised them by telling them to get out on the wrong side of the busy boulevard. I was a little concerned about their safety. But it seems that a group of teenage girls jumping up and down shouting, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” stops traffic faster than any crossing guard.

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Thursday we had a mellow day, starting with room service. Again with the magical mystery cups.

Everyone insisted that we see the cliff diver. It didn’t sound that amazing, but I’m not a lie-by-the-pool kind of traveler, so we headed over. It wasn’t a cliff. It was a ruin, wayyyy too close to the beach. The same family dives here. If you dive when the waves are out, you will probably die. There were rocks submerged just below the water. You have to time it just right so the waves are in and the water is deep enough. It made it much scarier than your average cliff diver.

Plus there is an intense proximity. Like someone walking the high wire in the Big Top isn’t impressive, but if someone walked across your clothesline you’d be pretty damn impressed. I think we gave him 20 bucks if I remember correctly, then another five or ten as a tip for letting me tape him.

I’m glad he didn’t die on my 20 bucks because that would make me responsible. I’d rather be part of a crowd tipping him. Like Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery or firing squad, no one person has to carry the burden of culpability.

We ate dinner at Playa Bruja’s Mr Lionoso. I didn’t realize they had 2 for 1 margaritas. Their ceviche not as good as at El Memin and the lobster was overcooked.

But the giant cheese-stuffed bacon-wrapped shrimp were out of this world.

The atmosphere was charmingly tropical in a Tiki Room sort of way. A panflute player serenaded us with what sounded like early Beegees, and I would swear one song was The Sultans of Swing.

The interesting outdoor tropical décor was enhanced by the location right on the beach. At one point a toddler wearing water wings and little else came tunning up from the beach. My first instinct was, “One escaped! Throw it back into the water, quick!

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Wednesday I finally started acting like I was on vacation and had brunch by the pool.

In addition to the usual breakfast treats there were really good marlin empenadas. They were cooked with lots of pasilla in a lardilicious flaky pastry crust that was similar to Cuban pastels.

We had lunch at El Bambu, which is known for their cabreria skirt steak special. The queso fundido arrived topped with an intense and smoky chorizo.

I made the mistake of ordering my steak medium rare. There really should have only been one option – charry. The medium rare was chewy and bland.

But the well done was nice and charred and flavorful.

They were playing that cool old Mexican music that sounds like it should have been played in the circus in the 20s. But we were divided by the language barrier and there was no name for the music other than “the old music”. I should have just stolen the casette tape.

We went to the local Aquarium and watched a man molest a nurse shark and sea turtle.

This bone looks like a giant mask

There was a little museum like the Cabrillo Museum used to be….like a museum of everything that has ever washed up on the beach.

I asked the people at the aquarium if they knew where they liberate the sea turtles. She told me to wait but after a bit another woman came out with a familiar cooler and a familily trailing behind. So I just started following them We walked down a quiet street, passed a lake, and walked up a big hill. We started hoping I had not misread the situation.

But we finally arrived on the beach and were able to free the turtles and watch them awkwardly toddle off into the sunset.

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Next the tour bus took us to a little town called El Quelite for lunch. And so much more. Now, this is where things started getting weird. Like Hunter S Thompson bat country weird. The tour guide was going on about witches, ancient rites of the Aztecs and indiginous cannibals in the mountains. Then he asked the group, “You like cockfights?”

Everyone was taken aback. One person said haughtily, “Those are illegal in the United States.

He said, “Yeah, they’re illegal here too” and laughed a creepy laugh. As we passed a bullfighting ring he told us about the quail farm behind it. Animals do not fare well around here. Or to put a positive spin on it, you could say that people are eating “local.” That’s some seriously fresh food.

One of the main features of El Quelite is this statue. It is of an ancient game like hackey sack or soccer, but you can only use your hips to touch the ball. I hope they had ancient athletic cups.

Next we hit a panaderia, not exactly an unfamiliar sight for an Angeleno. But I had never seen an oven like this, so the visit was cool. And who doesn’t love pan dulce?

There was an interesting “burnt sugar turnover. It is like blackstrap molasses. It rises so fast the sugar adheres to the pastry leaving an empty center.

Then we walked along the town.

I swear to you, I do not seek out cemeteries. They just seem to always be there. It was a few weeks after Dia de los Muertos, so everything had a fresh new coat of white paint.

As I was taking photos of the cemetery, I started hearing roosters. Oh no! He didn’t! He did. The tourists all blanched, like when you have accidentally gotten yourself in way over your head. Like you are in some kind of nightmare and can’t get out. The discomfort was palpable to everyone but the tour guide.

He asked, “Who wants to see a cock fight, hunh?” trying to get everyone excited. They all looked from one to the other. Half these people were probably going to eat chicken that day. Half of them were wearing leather. Really, at what point does it become hypocrisy?

He asked again, “Come on! Who wants to chicken fight???”

To lighten the mood, I said, “I’ll take one on! Strap one of those knives on my feet! I’ll fuck these chickens up!”

Surprisingly that did not help.

Really, it’s much more humane to use the knives so it is a quick, clean kill instead of letting the chickens hack at each other in a painful, drawn-out battle to the death. But I have to admit it’s kind of messed up the way he’s showing off this knife so proudly.

At this point, the guide finally noticed everyone’s discomfort. He started trying to defend the sport of cockfighting. He insisted the roosters love it; it’s in their nature; they aren’t forcing them to do anything they don’t want to do. Then he actually walked over to one of the roosters and started trying to kick it! And that rooster went apeshit. He kicked and the rooster pecked and flapped, and I thought, “I can’t believe I am watching this guy fight a fucking chicken.”

Finally, after everyone was sufficiently freaked out we meandered over to the restaurant for lunch. It was a bit of a tourist trap, but that meant bright and safe-feeling with clean bathrooms. The group was needing the security of colorful woven tablecloths at this point in the tour.

Meson de los Laureanos is named after Jose Laureano, a local folk hero.

The tour guide had described the local dishes to us on the tour, “Machaca, that is beef, carnitas is pork, pollo is chicken, and birria, that is beef.” When I picked up the menu, I immediately checked the translations. Because sometimes it is birria de res, but it’s often birria de chivo, or goat. The menu items all described the animal, except for Birria. It said, “A Mexican specialty.” As in special Mexican goats?

As usual, I was unable to choose just one dish and asked if they wouldn’t mind making me a “mixed” platter. Clockwise from top right: Lamb, Goat (?), and Beef. They cooked it barbecue-style, then stewed it in a sauce. Mmmmmm. The lamb was a little gamey, but I loved the goat. It was not “wild” or weird or gamey. It was perfect. The beef was very good, but the birria goat, err, uhhh, “beef” was my favorite.

Since there was a quail farm nearby, we thought we would try the fresh quail. I had always heard complaints about the little bones, but it was no different than hot wings. And they were so succulent and light – not gamey, and not like chicken, better than chicken. I love quail now – at least super fresh quail.

Hmmm

On the way there and back we crossed the Tropic of cancer – my first time!

After such an eventful day, we took it easy and ordered a simple dinner from room service. Sinaloa supplies most of the tomatoes for the United States, and it really showed. It seems like they pick the fruits and vegetables closer to ripe than we do, but they also sell them a little longer than we do too, as I was to learn in the Old Town Market later in the week.

I was completely freaked out when I tried to eat my chicken soup. It took me a second to realize it had clear plastic wrap tightly wrapped around the bowl.

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We start the morning off sensibly enough with chilaquiles from room service. Do I even need to tell you that they totally kick ass?

Even American breakfast came with chilaquiles and magic tortilla cups.

From the minute we stepped on the tour bus there was screaming from the ugly Americans – Cranky Guy was hollering that they were just gonna get off the bus and screw the whole thing if they were going to cram 2 more people in there.

I do not have good luck with tour buses.

We were driven for an hour along deserted dirt roads populated with black buzzards, vultures, crosses marking deaths in the road and homes with private backyard cemeteries.

Then it was all blue agave

After the agave is hacked up, you are left with the pina.

The pina is cooked in underground kilns.

At this point you can chew on it and extract the agave juice which is seriously addicting. Seriously. And maybe a hallucinogen. The jury is still out. But later that night this is what I wrote while chewing it:

It kind of looks like horses hooves made out of beef jerky. You chew and suck on the fibers and they release their sweet nectar. There is something light and sweet molaases and honey, masking something darker, a slight sensation of alcohol and sex in a smoky room. I wasn;t paying too much attention to what the tour guide was saying at this point, but it wasn;t rae agave pina. Later I asked if I could take some with me, which appeared to be an unusual request. They said to be careful with it so it wouldn’t spoil or ferment. So what I have is definitely not fermented. I wonder if I can get it through customs, or if the bees trailing my bags will be a dead giveaway.

I tried to take pictures following the pipes so my friends back home could follow the process, but I kept getting disctracted by scary machinery and things on fire

At first I thought this was some kind of torture device. But then my brother explained to me that it was part of a pulley system to power this torture device with teeth that you can see in the videos above.

I liked this cog for no special reason.

I still don’t know what this is

Production:

And what happens in this room?

Oh, sorry, mister

Then it was time to drink

The horses had big dents in their heads that kind of freaked me out

The factory owner stuck his thumb in it to show me it was OK

Now there goes a real cowboy

Back through the agave fields. On the trip there, the guide told us about the local flora and fauna, and how the state of Jalisco had a copyright on the word tequila, so it’s kind of like Champagne. But on the way back, maybe the tequila had gotten to him. He started telling long stories about cannibals and brujas. This is a plant brujas use to dry up your brain.

Woman on tour to husband: what’s a brujas?
Husband: You know honey, a brewhaus, like those German places where they sell beer

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