Burrito, Burrato

Mexican cooks are like Dr. Seuss: they can do so much with so little. In the same way that Theodor Geisel could take a couple of words, “cat,” “hat,” “eggs” and “ham” and make a masterpiece, a Mexican can take some tortillas, a meat product, salsa and one or two other ingredients and create a party in your mouth so good, it’s as if Hugh Hefner moved the Playboy Mansion down to Rio De Janeiro to celebrate his birthday on Mardi Gras, which just so happened to fall on New Year’s eve on the same day his grandson was having his bar mitzvah.

I was recently catching up with an old friend, and we got on the topic of Mexican food. She said, “I’ve had this one dish, I forget what it’s called, but it’s got tortilla, beans, cheese, meat and salsa.” The only problem is this is literally the description of almost all Mexican food: tacos, sopes, bocoles, gringas, gorditas, enchilladas, tostadas, burrito, carnitas, chilaquiles, tlayuda, and taquitos to name but a few. It’s like saying, I met this one American who didn’t know anything about the rest of the world, or, I don’t remember much about the manatee I saw, except that it was obese, now do you know which one I’m talking about?

This soup is tortilla, meat and cheese. Mexican food is like the T1000 from Terminator 2; it can take on an infinite number of forms.

Don’t ask me how it works, but all the food is different and it all tastes completely amazing. Of course when it comes to a distinguished palate you shouldn’t take my word, because I’ll eat anything: my own fist, things on the floor, dog treats, ear wax, toenails, etc. Instead, chew on this, (pun intended) Mexican food is the only national cuisine currently on the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage Site. So, it’s not just my garbage truck of a mouth that thinks this stuff is scrumptious. If puppies, winning lottery tickets and jet skis somehow came together to form this edible, blissful nexus of deliciousness it would be Mexican food.

Now I can hear you, John and Jane Q gringo reader, saying, “But, I’ve had Mexican before, and I know what it’s all about.” Well, I’ve got news for you dedicated reader; the yellow “Old El Paso” kits are full of shit. (Not literally of course...Taco Bell on the other hand...).

Chilaquiles,a breakfast dish of... you guessed it... tortilla, meat, and salsa

Below is a list of some of the stark contrasts between Mexican food and Americanized Mexican food.

Number 1: The hard, U-shaped taco shell doesn’t exist. (In fact, the idea was first published in a cookbook in Santa Fe, New Mexico, AMERICA in 1949). For tacos in Mexico, it’s soft tortillas.

These Old El Paso kits are to Mexican food as Fox News is to reporting.

Number 2: While meat is a staple (and by staple, I mean nail gun) ground beef isn’t one of them. You can buy insanely cheap little tacos here for around 30 cents, but even these are packed with meat of a higher quality then the minced-up slop left on the slaughter house floor.

Number 3: The fajita. I have still yet to go to restaurant where a waiter/waitress carries a cast-iron tray of smouldering veggies and meat that sizzle so much you expect Smokey the Bear to run into the restaurant and start giving his pitch. On a side note if you’re every feeling glum and merely need someone to notice you, I suggest you go to an American chain restaurant and order fajitas. It’s impossible not to stare at the volcano of a plate and give the person who ordered them 15 seconds of attention.

Number 4: Myth number 4 revolves around salsa. Now, don’t get me wrong, salsa exists. It’s ubiquitous, the only difference is unlike gringo salsa, Mexican salsa doesn’t come in a jar and it doesn’t pride itself on being “thick” and/or “chunky.” (It’s a garnish not vomit). Instead their salsas are already on the table in a thick, stone bowl called a molcajete. Regardless of where you eat, there is one thing you can be certain of with these salsas – they’ve got some kick to them.

In short, while you think your outings to Pink Taco Mexican Grill, or Mex I Can are a cultural dining treat, be aware that there’s a whole other culinary experience south of the border.

no hablo espanol

Of all the places I’ve been so far, language has rarely been a barrier, and it’s not because I’m some sagacious language learner (in fact nothing could be farther from the truth), but because English has always been the dominant tongue. It’s not my intention to brag, but my Facebook app, “Where I’ve been” looks like Jackson Pollock took teal paint to a map of the world. During my travels I’ve been a few hundred miles from Conrad’s heart of darkness in Africa and yet all my conversations were spoken in English. I’ve been to South Pacific islands that are a few boat rides away from archipelagos where tribes still haven’t seen Western ways, and still English was spoken by almost all. It wasn’t until I came to a city that is a few hours from the US border that I have really had to make an effort to learn the native language.

When I was in Korea conversing was simple. Just about everyone under the age of 40 spoke amazing English, and as such, there was never a necessity to learn Korean. Not only that, but Koreans tended to re-enforced my ignorance. There were many times when Koreans would ask me to list all the words I knew in their language. For me, this conversation didn’t last very long. Every time I would utter a word in their tongue, the Korean would repeat the word and giggle like I just said the words “Lake Titicaca” to a 13 year-old boy. They were even impressed with words like kimchi, a Korean food which has no English equivalent, and the names of Korean towns and cities. And of course, after they were done giggling, they’d commend me by saying like, “Impeccably impressive, your Korean lexicon is quite prodigious but remember, practice is paramount my compatriot.”

Nothing could be more contrary here in Mexico. I’m not fluent Fred by any means, but I’m taking lessons and learning more each day. Regardless, people here come up to me and engage in full-on Spanish conversations (as they should in their own country), to which I often respond, “Lo siento, pero no hablo mucho espanol. ¿Puede por favor hablar mas despacio?” At this point, given my Korean experiences, I’m expecting to get blown right there on the spot, but instead Mexicans often look a little disappointed and simply stare at me like they caught me urinating in their gas tank.

I respect the tough love the Mexicans assert towards their language. I believe that the ignominious looks I get from some Mexicans for not knowing their language can partly be blamed on the linguistic ignorance of a certain group of foreigners who travel to Mexico. They are described below.

Ask a certain assemblage of people if they know any Spanish when you learn they’re travelling to Mexico, and you may hear them proudly reply, “All I know is, Dos cervezas por favor,” followed by some chortling. Perhaps you know the individuals that make up this group. In male form, they are the guys who wear their stripy, getting-laid shirts every Friday night. They go to a club looking to attract any conscious member of the opposite sex. When they arrive at the discotheque, they realize they are a drop of water in an ocean of stripy, getting-laid shirts and so, to distinguish themselves from the clones they often resort to groping, grinding and/or fighting in order to showcase their unique sense of awesomeness. In female form, these individuals use too much self-tanner and instead of having a fake, healthy glow, they look as if they just rolled around in a giant bag of Doritos. These women can also differentiate each of the Kardashians. These individuals are proud of their Mexican eruditeness (the knowing of one simple phrase), when in actual fact, the closest they’ll get to doing anything truly Mexican is the salsa instructor at the resort in Playa del Carmen named Luis Jose.

In short, I believe that Mexicans are weary of foreigners who don’t speak Spanish, thanks in part to this particular group of people. Furthermore, because of this weariness, I feel obligated to learn more Spanish, so I would just like to thank those guys who idolized Mike, “The Situation” and the horoscope manic girls who travel down to Mexico to have a great time.

P.S. For some reason the people I’ve come across who say, “dos cervezas por favor,” always ask for two, never one. It’s as if this group wants to accentuate their duchebaggery. (If I had to fathom a guess as to why they say “dos cervezas” and not one, it’s because in order to request a single beer, you would have to conjugate uno, to una because cerveza is feminine and that would require an actual thought, so it’s just easy to order two).

P.P.S. I would also like to point out that simply knowing the phrase “dos cervezas, por favour” isn’t all that helpful. In non-resort Mexico, there are follow up questions like: “¿Que tipo? ¿De que tamano? ¿Con hielo? ¿En un vaso?” And you just sit there and stare at the waiter like he swore in front of the Pope.

P.P.P.S. Next time you encounter someone having English language troubles, please go easy on them for me. And please, don’t merely repeat the same thing, only louder and louder. They volume in which you say a word does not, in any way, aide in one’s understanding of the meaning.

Ghettoblaster-classifying

It’s important to learn and know about stereotypes, which is why, regardless of pedagogical context, I always try to introduce the idea to students around the world. In Kuwait, when I asked my students to provide an example of a stereotype, more than one of them seriously replied, “ You know, Sony, Panasonic, RCA, stuff like that.” The answer didn’t surprise me much, I mean, what else could I except from a nation of apathetic, obtuse Middle Easterners?

It’s essential to understand the power and sway stereotypes can have, because if people are uneducated about the issue, then they can completely shape certain outcomes without ever fully comprehending them. As a white male, I am completely aware of the repercussions and dangers stereotypes have, and thus, am obliged to pass along my wisdom to other, less educated people.

This park was created by a deviated artist. It was part Dali, part Esher, part Whoville, part PCP... okay, that's probably a bit extreme -- nothing's Dali-esque.

Recently, I committed a faux pas that almost went unnoticed. A few weeks ago, I ventured a few hundred kilometres (which is an approximation of course, I didn’t calculate the exact distance; I’m not a Korean or anything) into rural Mexico and found myself saying upon my return, “It was nice to finally see ‘real’ Mexico.”

"Real" Mexico. At first it doesn’t seem like much of a queer phrase. ("'Ugh, Oh my God, I can't believe you don't know all the wordth to the 'Rent' Thoundtrack,' said Steve." Now, that's a queer phrase) In fact, most people try to sieve through the layers of excrement to find something real. Of course there are a few instances when one doesn’t want the real thing: Pamela Anderson, prison re-enactments, or housewives from any affluent Californian suburb to name a few.

But getting back to the issue at hand: “Real” Mexico.

What I meant by “Real” Mexico of course, was that I had finally been to a few small towns that seemed to more accurately represent what the outside world stereotypically thinks of when they imagine Mexico. These little towns had city centres surrounded by buildings with New Orleans-inspired balconies and colors. These towns were jostling with old men, sitting around, with their cowboy hats on, eating tacos and talking about the good old days.

But what does that say about the bustling city, filled with Wal-Marts, 10 lane highways, Home Depots, Starbucks, and sushi bars, that I live in? Is this “fake” Mexico? Of course not. It just doesn’t fit our preconceived notions of Mexican life. (In fact, around 75% of the population lives in urban areas and have worked hard for these luxuries). While you look at these photos, and those to come in future posts, please keep in mind that they are the exception and not the rule. While some could argue that I could help change the paradigm by posting a plethora of photos accurately depicting the everyday Mexican life, I’ll be honest, if you want to see a picture of a person standing outside a KFC, just imagine a scene from small-town USA, except for with a skinny person.

In conclusion, it is important not to stereotype or hold-on to preconceived notions. The sad thing is, if one isn't educated about these terrible social simplification, then they might not even know they're guilty of perpetuating them. One must be constantly readjusting their beliefs and perceptions as new information is presented. I offer these words as a gift -- an amazing, free gift. (Cue huge increase with Jewish readership).

This is the same cave that can be seen at the introduction of "Planet Earth: Caves" (the scene with the BASE jumpers). Photos cannot capture this cave that's about as close to the youthful "hole to China" as one will ever see. Of course, if such a hole did exist, they wouldn't be able to look back at us as clearly, if you know what I'm saying.
(>_<)

Uno is the Loneliest Number

It’s been a while since my last post and this is mainly due to the fact that the terrorist had won, well momentarily anyway. After my attack (see: “Atlas Mugged”), I refrained from my normal routine and was a wee bit hesitant to go out wondering and exploring. This wasn't enjoyable because I don't much care for staying indoors and having my outings restricted to trips to the mailbox. (I now know how people in nursing homes feel). It was difficult for me, because keeping me caged inside is like trying to contain a black man to a pair of bicycle shorts. Eventually I started poking my head back into the Mexican wild. At first, it was a bit difficult and it certainly wasn’t pleasant having a bowel movement every time a taxi cab pulled over to drop someone off within a 10 meter radius of me, or an old lady slowed to make a left hand turn, but I managed.

Needless to say I became quite prone to staying inside and entertaining myself. Long nights in my apartment allowed me to reflect on my lifestyle and I soon noticed that I was living the bachelor life in every sense of the idea. This thought spawned the following facebook post:

"Wow, cereal for dinner. You must really like breakfast!"
"No, I just live by myself."

The post got me thinking that I could actually create a whole shtick, a la Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck if...", themed around, “You know you live by yourself when...” So without any further ado,

You know you live by yourself when top ramen is one of your food groups.

You know you live by yourself when you put Bertrand Russell to shame.

“Wow, you’re using your computer on the toilet; you must really like the Internet!”
“No, I just live by myself.”

You know you live by yourself when you watch more movies than Ebert and Roeper

You know you live by yourself when your toothbrush holder is an empty Kleenex box.


You know you live by yourself when wearing pants is the exception to the rule.

You know you live by yourself when your “To Do” list consists of, “Don’t die.”

You know you live by yourself when you go to remove the spiders and their webs and think, “But now who’s going to get rid of the ants?”

And finally, you know you live by yourself when Tropical Storm Nate is rolling in and people recommend that you stock up on provisions and you feel adequately prepared because you’ve got the following things:


For those of you craving some real insights, I'll do my best soon.

Atlas Mugged

Sunday marked the 10th day I’d been in Mexico, and it also happened to mark the day I got mugged. While it obviously wasn’t peaches, ice cream or The Goonies, the way I see it, it’s like getting the chicken pox or watching Dirty Dancing with a new girlfriend – it’s good to get it out of the way early.

I’ll save you all of the details, but there was some pushing, shoving, and some extremely poor attempts at Spanish (My favourite might have been, “Malo hombre! Malo hombre!” [“Bad man! Bad man!”]) Towards the end of the whole ordeal I was cara-to-cara with the guy. Once he realized I wasn’t just going to hand over my wallet, he started throwing a few punches. Now, I’ve learned that you can never be sure how you’ll react in such situations until you’re actually in them. While some might have let their animalistic impulses kick in, I resorted to my natural Gandhi instincts. (It’s time like this I wish my idol was GSP and not a 90 pound piece of al a dente spaghetti from Bombay). In my own defence I feel I was thinking quite rationally, for I realized at the time there were only three possible outcomes.

One, I serendipitously threw some punches to his face (and by punches to his face, I mean knees to his groin) and actually harmed the assailant. (Had this happened, from that day forth, whenever someone spoke of the “Miracle” they would no longer be referring to a silly hockey game in 1980, but the great Mexican upset of 2011). Needless to say, I would have definitely sustained a few bumps and bruises along the way, but boy would I have been riding high with a lifetime boxing record of 1-0. Of course this glory would have been short lived as the two guys waiting in the car would have surely tainted my moment. In the end the outcome would be me on the ground, in serious pain and without a wallet.

Two, I try to throw some punches to his face (and by punches to his face, I of course mean knees to his groin), but to no avail. Maybe I land a good patella to his grapes, and maybe I don’t, but in the end the outcome would be me on the ground, in serious pain and without a wallet.

Three, I could realize the guy means business, hand over my wallet and avoid any serious damage; except the emotional scarring that happens every time my ancient, air-conditioner kick-starts and makes the exact same noise as an intruder and I find myself with wet pyjamas. Incidentally, the stoic approach is the advice given by Lonely Planet and therefore cannot be disputed by any mortal.

Of course there has now been talk of me finding some means of protection. People have thrown out a variety of ideas including: honing my roundhouse kicks, gaining 30 pounds, getting mace and growing a moustache. Ultimately though, I know what the paragon of self-defence is, and will use the words of comedian Pablo Francisco to share with you.

“Latin women are the best... because if you get in a fight or something they’ll help you out. In my neighbourhood if you’ve got a Latin girlfriend you don’t need a big brother. You get hit in the face [and you’re like], ‘#$&!. Let me go get my girlfriend.’
“They’ll get right in there man. Some guy comes to your party looking to kick your ass... [and your latin girlfriend asks him], ‘What’s going on? He’s my boyfriend. What’s up ese? Com mun stupid!’
“Essay... are you calling me a term paper or something?”
[Fight ensues]
[Once the smoke settles your Latin girlfriend says], “Oh my god, you’re still alive... here hold my baby.”
[Finishes him]

Watch the extended video here:
http://comedians.jokes.com/pablo-francisco/videos/pablo-francisco---latin-women

In all seriousness though, I was hesitant to comment on the incident because it perpetuates a stereotype that the people here have been assuring me just isn’t true. There is violence in this area, but it’s of a different kind. I’m told this sort of thing is extremely rare. I live in a town of millions of people, who go to work, shop at Wal-Marts, and drive nice cars i.e. they go about their lives everyday just like the people in any other city.

I’ll leave you with one thought: imagine me, my physicality and the streets of Oakland. I’d be lucky to last the night.

Estoy aqui

Hola mi amigos

I have arrived in Mexico after a six hour stopover in the Houston airport, which seemed a little like Mexico lite. Spanish, moustaches, necklaces with crucifixes and shorter people were aplenty.


A sweet SkyMall ad I found in a magazine. And I quote: "... featuring a variety of designs to make wearing respiratory masks fun."

Allow me to backtrack a bit by telling you all a tale that happened to me while I was still in Toronto. The American passport control officer attempted to make some conversation with me at Pearson airport. Upon gazing at my passport, the man noted that I had an “interesting” last name. In politeness, I gave the man permission to chortle. Of course he refrained from any outward tittering, which was polite I suppose, but he then asked if my last name was Native American. De veras? My last name has been the topic of conversation on more than one occasion, but nobody has ever asked such a thing before. (Not even an American...hey oh). I thought to myself, I’m not sure that’s exactly how the Natives used to pick those sorts of names. Just imagine the following conversation way back in the day: “How. Welcome to our land, This is my wife Thick Bush and he my friend Tiny Stick.” And to tell you the truth, I was actual put off by the whole thing, for I felt ‘Ferris’ didn’t have much credibility when it came to name calling.


Another SkyMall ad. The jokes write themselves.

I have a small complaint when it comes to flying. I dislike the power pilots flex when it comes to turning on and off the seatbelt sign while at cruising altitude. Sometimes the light comes on when there’s a little turbulence, and while I guess I understand the logic, I’m still a little apprehensive. Walking around during turbulence is no worse than walking out onto a floating dock. And people aren't just being projected into the water on those things. And besides, if I want to stand up and take the chance of accidently falling into the lap of a divorcee isn’t that my risk? But that’s definitely not the worst of it. There’s other times when I think they just put the light on to show us their power and let us know who’s boss at 35,000 feet. It’s like when a dog starts growling during an amicable game of fetch, when old people ask you to remove your hat once indoors or when you’re getting a lap dance and the stripper tells you, “no touching.”


This is a real Mexican coin. It's 10 cents, which is worth about 8/10ths of a Canadian cent. I bought 3 tacos, a side of beans and a drink with it. Totally joking.

A few people have been a touch concerned for my safety here in Mexico, so I would like to take this opportunity to inform everyone that things are going to be just fine. I spent my first night at a nice hotel and ate at Applebees. There is nothing to worry about, and besides, I like to consider myself a bit of a man’s man. I don’t want to say that I’m not afraid to die, but I would like to think that I laugh in the face of danger. I think in this dog eat dog world a strong macho offense that cracks a few skulls is probably the best approach. P.S. Mom, thanks so much for the snackies. Felt really great in my tum-tum.