I long for some terrific nachos. Sturdy. Spectacularly piquant. They leave my fingers messily but gleefully and shamelessly lacquered in an uneven coat of nacreous cheese, along with parts of my face and trousers. Whimpering, I clean this cheese from my fingers with my mouth.
One Thursday not too long ago, seeking refuge from a heartless postmeridian rain, I found myself among the cheeses at my local Whole Foods, absently caressing a wheel of egg yolk cheddar as this ribald hallucination danced among my thoughts like a wild dog. I must have been gripping this cheddar with an impressive might, for the cheesemonger interrupted my erotic musings from behind his counter to enquire if I was in need of some assistance. Caught in a moment of rare candor, and somewhat discomfited by the hand print that was now embedded upon the body of his idle congregant, I conceded that, actually, the thought of nachos had overtaken me, and I was unwittingly pining for a mountain of gooey, crenulated bliss.
This pathetic admission rendered me instantly ashamed, as it was a marked departure from the important matters I normally strive to quiz my cheesemongers on, such as Verdi, camembert, and so forth, and, likely, exposed me as a flaneur. Panic stricken, I machinated a hasty escape, pointing with some convincing wonderment into the near distance at nothing in particular and skillfully posing the question, "well now, what do you suppose that is over there?" When the brute turned to look, I schemed, I would execute a hasty escape! Ambulating quickly in the direction of the /boulanger/ and depositing this miserable moment into life's garbage bin of perpetual regret. But oh! This clever cheesemonger. He outwitted me, paying no mind to the ethereal object of mystery I had so cleverly conjured, and instead eliciting a Dostoyevskian guffaw that he barely attempted to conceal with his hirsute fist. Arms akimbo, I stood for a moment quite still, reflecting on this myopic encounter, preparing to pivot and once again merge with the torpid bog of platitudinous shoppers. But as I prepared my retreat, this confrontation abided yet another Shakespearean twist, for the cheesemonger, as fate would have it, was also quite the nacho devotee, and had recently dined on a memorable pile at a lively cantina called Gueros that he was eager to endorse.
It would be a fortnight or so before I followed through on this recommendation, for there is a soot-stained underside of my carriage that secretly basks in the rabid, thunderous pang of desire as it echoes through my great viscus cavity like the cannon blasts of Stravinsky's timpani. Thus, it was not until this craving had taken a significant toll on my wellbeing that my wanderings brought me finally to Gueros, where I waited patiently in line and placed an order for one portion of their most expensive nachos.
The platter, which arrived at my table after not too long, was at once beautiful and unassuming--modest, even. Adorned with juicy morsels of steak, diced tomatoes, some variety of /crema/, and a generous wedge of avocado, which I astutely divided into /petits morceaux/ with the sharp edge of a chip, the provided toppings made no attempt to rival a deluxe or supreme variety of the dish that one might encounter at, say, a pedestrian bar. This, I thought, was fine with me, and I began to eat, immediately taken by the vitality of the chips, which refused to give any ground to the muscular tremble of my ape paw.
It wasn't until maybe the fourth or fifth bite that this Cockney flower girl decided to remove her spectacles, let down her hair, and reveal herself to be a far more sophisticated mademoiselle than initial impressions had implied. For it was at this moment that, via the apex of one particularly intrepid /totopo/, I unearthed, stewing in the depths of my paper platter, a lake of steamy, zesty queso. Queso, oh queso. /Je vous lèche du fond de cette boîte en carton/. You see, while a conventionally melted cheese would have coagulated quite immediately upon atmospheric exposure, this mystical elixir maintained a melty consistency throughout my entire dining experience, which, I assure you, was was not at all lengthy, for as each stimulating crepitation set my taste buds athrob, all I could do to keep from spreading my wings and executing a glorious swan dive into this spicy molten treasure was buckle myself onto my stool as if in the throes of some most turbulent air travel and, with a metronome's equability, devour.
As the essences and textures of this mellifluous magic coalesced into a harmonious crescendo, my every finger glistened, and I gazed down on my near-empty platter with reckless optimism. My craving had abated. One day, as the clouds do form, it would surely reignite, and my personal /jeux des cités rivales/ would resume. But today, for a lover's shake, I was free to sail down the Rio Grande, alone and at peace on my driftwood skiff of satisfaction, delighting--on nachos. read more