As I write this, I’m sitting in my favorite coffee shop in the world, Hotshots in Lake Arrowhead, CA. And believe me, I’ve been to my share around the world and all pale to this gem in the mountains of Southern California.
When my dish came I was reminded of another time I ordered chicken. I had been riding a 2nd Class bus for days after crossing the Guatemalan border into Mexico. I knew this was going to be an adventure when I saw the sign on the bus driver’s visor that read, “Jesuscristo Mi Copiloto—Jesus Christ is my Copilot.” Above the inscription hung a collection of crucifixes and crosses and a picture of Christ ascending into the heavens.
As we wound through the first mountains that evening, I noticed the bus driver was turning his headlights off when passing on blind curves. He explained to me that this allowed him to see the lights of oncoming vehicles. He laughed when I suggested that another vehicle could be doing the same thing and pointed to the sign. I retired to the back of the bus with some campesinos and shared my flask.
As the trip progressed, I contracted dysentery requiring the bus driver to make frequent stops. Ultimately, the patience of the driver and the passengers was at an end and I found myself in Vera Cruz recuperating. A kind lady hotelier and a local pharmacist eventually put me right, which is another story.
I knew I was on the mend when I had the overwhelming craving for fresh chicken enchiladas, Vera Cruz style. My hostess told me of a local restaurant in her neighborhood that made the best in the city. She laughed and assured me they would be really fresh.
I decided I was strong enough to walk and could use the evening air. As I made my way through the narrow streets it began to rain, slowing my progress. Finally, I saw the little place down an alley and quickened my pace to get out of the weather.
I was about halfway, when a young man sprinted past me chased by a rotund policeman; huffing and puffing, pistol drawn. I had just enough time to dodge into an alcove as he began firing. After a several shots he bent over trying to catch his breath. The young man disappeared into the mist. The policeman and I went to dinner.
Inside was so steamy that you couldn’t see out the windows. My newfound friend and I were the only customers, so took seats near the kitchen. The policeman validated that the enchiladas were the best in town. The waitress was a short, little firebrand that stood tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for our orders.
I asked her if the chicken was fresh before I ordered. She laughed, as though to a private joke and assured me I wouldn’t find fresher. Right after she entered the kitchen with our orders, a small boy darted through it’s swinging doors, past us, disappearing outside. I quizzically looked at the policeman but he just shrugged assuring me all was normal. Of course, I took that with a grain-of-salt as this was the same man who minutes before had been shooting at someone out front.
Now, in Mexico you wait for your meal. It takes time and nothing happens very quickly. But usually it’s worth it. Dinner is a social event that should be savored. But this dinner was really taking a long time. Just as I was about to call the waitress over, the boy returned with a chicken under each arm and disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later we heard squawking and the chopping of what sounded like a cleaver followed by silence; except for subdued laughter and the rattling of pots.
After about half-and-hour, we had the freshest and most savory chicken enchiladas I’ve ever tasted to this day. And I made a few lifelong friends that have enriched my world ever since, but, as I said before, that’s another story.
The road to the freshest chicken enchiladas you’ve ever tasted, can be a long and unpredictable one, but, as in life, the rewards can be great.
22 thoughts on “Weekly Lessons From the Road: Fresh Chicken Enchiladas”
Love reading these stories, man… keep them coming!
Many thanks my young friend.
You tell such good stories. Are these in one of your books? Do youvwrite them all down
No, none of these are in my novel…. Thanks, Donna. While it’s great to be unplugged. I like the chance to post a story… Coming from a writer like you means a lot. Regards!
You really should compile a book of short stories..they are so good
I plan to write a novel that is set in Mexico/Latin America which will give the opportunity to weave some of these experiences into the plot….
Aah look forward to that.
I don’t eat chicken, but I loved this story!
Thanks, for the kind words! I’m thinking this experience would guarentee you won’t eat chicken any time soon. I love your blog!
Reblogged this on bookpino.
Hahaha that is quite a story. It reminds me of when they made chicken at my grandma’s finca
I grew up on a ranch in Montana and it was the same. No one made fried chicken like my grandma. 🙂
What a cool story! Loved it!
HaHa!! Reminds me of one of my daughters’ mission trips, floating down an Amazon tributary in South America with live chickens on the boat (for dinner….) Great site!
I’d love to hear that story!
Well, you couldn’t get it much fresher than that…
You write good stories, I agree with Donna, you should turn them into a book. Have a great Friday!
Coming from someone with your photographic eye is high praise. Many thanks and warm regards.
My pleasure 🙂 Have a wonderful weekend!
I’m be smoking some pork shoulder, for pulled pork, sipping homebrew and shine; a
nd looking out over the forest from our deck with friends. You too!
Sounds perfect! Thank you 🙂
I think you are really some worth knowing. Have a great weekend!