Maybe it's the earthen flatware and glassware; maybe, if you're a child, it's the fluorescent orange fideos n' cheese that brings you here; but really, if you're willing to put up with the degradation of eating under a tent, it's got to be the beef machaca.*
Bona fide machaca isn't something you just run into in my native California. Yet - in Arizona - there it is. With all the jibber-jabber about SoCal vs. Norcal vs. Texas vs. Chicago Mexican food, the true champion is on the sands of the Sonoran Desert. So what about the machaca?
The chilaquiles are fine. Would be even better if served hot instead of lukewarm. The puree of pinto beans are piquantly larded. As for the tamal, the masa tasted oddly sweet. But the machaca starred.
First they dry the beef. Then they smoked it. Finally they shred it. These pencil shavings of carne de res are then reconstituted in a sofrito. The flavor gives evidence of the smoke; gives evidence of the drying process; you discover also a slight tang from the aging process - similar to any dry-aged beef - but also bottarga or shrimp paste.
In a jar on the table are the native chiltepin dried chillies. Each table has its own ornamental chili grinder. They sell cafe de la oya and champurado that are nice, notwithstanding the violent sun of Pheonix, AZ.
* I kid. There's nothing wrong with preparing, serving, or eating food under a tent. read more