Mexican Italian - Primi e Ultima Volta

This blog thing isn’t supposed to be about food. There are already zillions of food oriented blogs, some of which have been made into movies, which is totally not my aspiration here. And I'm not much good in the kitchen other than being able to wash dishes or boil water.

But I do like to eat, and I did marry an Italian girl. My friend Ian once told me something about how impressed he was that Brits seem to be born with a natural ability to head-butt. It’s in this same appreciative spirit and barely tempered sense of awe that I offer the following: Italians can cook. There have been plenty of times that D and I will look into the same fridge – I see a cold empty box, while she finds a number of ingredients which, in a matter of minutes, become something better than I could ever produce even if I had no end of resources on hand. This isn’t a talent unique to D. It’s one of those normal Italian things. Kind of like how Americans have a special talent for, say, breathing.

As you know, we’ve been staying in Italy while we attend to my Mother-In-Law’s health. What was to be a weeklong visit has become closer to a month, and we still don’t know when we’ll return to the US.

One of the things I miss the most is the ready access to excellent Mexican food. I love Mexican food every bit as much as I love Italian food. My Mom-In-Law likes Mexican as well, but asserts that Italian is better. It’s certainly more fattening. I could prove this, but I see no need to post any more unflattering photos of myself on the internet than there already are. I also see no need to provide you with links to said photos.

A few days ago For the entire time I've been away from Portland, I was have been suffering profound withdrawals for some Mexican, so we headed off to Cremona’s only known Mexican restaurant. Unlike Portland, Cremona does not have a substantial Mexican population (which is just one more reason Portland pretty much kicks ass). It was a long walk across town, and we had to ask the fellow inside - reading a magazine about pop teen stuff - if they were even open. Other than this one staff member, the place was completely empty. We ignored this glaring indicator as well as the EuroTechnoElectronica pounding forth from the speakers that hung from the walls in every corner. We did know that we were in a Mexican restaurant, though, because they had a sombrero hanging from the wall.

As I continued my quest to find the world’s best enchilada, it was clear that this was the thing to order. Our waiter, who used to live in Washington DC with one British parent (so he probably knows how to head-butt) and one Eritrean (I don't know what innate talent this brings), spoke excellent Italian and told me – in English – that I was going to love the chicken enchilada. They don’t call it a “chicken enchilada,” though. It’s called “Enchilada Suisse,” which makes it sound like an Italian is going to make a Mexican dish with some Swiss flair. For some reason, I ignored this indicator as well, and stayed the course. The waiter seemed far too nice to be a complete liar. Maybe he was suffering a profound lack of any judgment.

D and her sis ordered fajitas, which seem like the kind of thing that even a cook like me ought to be able to manage. Our nephew ordered up a plate of risotto with butter (even more idiot proof) and our niece settled in for a mound of french fries surrounded by tater tot things that looked to be older than any of us. They might have been chicken nuggets or little plop shaped fish sticks. Not even the 5 year old thought they looked like food.

The fajitas looked to have the right ingredients, yet were remarkably void of flavor. We’ve eaten all kinds of things over here that are served essentially plain, and pretty much everything served anywhere has more flavor than these slices of bell pepper, onion and beef.

The Enchilada Suisse consisted of tortillas wrapped around cubed bits of chicken that may have been heated in a microwave – none of the familiar (and tasty) grill scorches on any of them, and no spices whatsoever. This dead chicken had all the flavor and tenderness of an elderly factory farmed egglaying hen that had seen the end of her egg production and been rejected by both the McNuggets people and the dog food factory before being killed for sport by the local stray cat (which also declined to eat her). No beans, no rice. Slathered inside the tortillas along with the chickenesque cubes was a generous dose of marinara sauce… not salsa, not enchilada sauce. Marinara. This stuff had all the quality of a reconstituted Chef-Boy-R-Dee product, very likely found in someone's leftover bomb shelter stores, and not something that belongs in an enchilada in the first place. Had it been a little less runny and a little more flavorful, I might have thought it ketchup. Over the top of these two "enchilads" was an enormous slab of mozzarella. No salsa, no sour cream, no avocado, and – like the fajitas – no discernable spices. The closest thing to this enchilada one could suffer to find would be a slab of the lasagna they serve at places like Applebee’s – poor quality wrong ingredients buried under a slab of high fat cheese to hide the profound lack of flavor. Actually, it was a lot more like horrible lasagna than like enchiladas. The only enchilada related things on the plate were the tortillas.

Proven: it’s possible to find really awful food in Italy. You just have to look for something they’ve only heard of and wouldn’t like in the first place.