Thursday, November 11, 2004

Tamales? Sure, I’ve heard of them, maybe even tasted one or two along the way, but until a few months ago I never sampled street tamale. One of my co-workers occasionally treats the office to bagfuls of the stuff, and I look forward to these mornings with well seasoned longing.

I’ve been bred on Chipotle and, I’m ashamed to admit, the rare Chalupa from Taco Bell, so my faux-Mexican cuisine traditionally contains a bit of certitude along with a sprinkle of cheese. There’s comfort in knowing that although a massive corporation doesn’t have my optimum heart rate in mind, it does promise a consistent taste and a minimum level of quality. And I haven’t even broached the topic of free salsa.

That’s why my first encounter with street tamale opened my eyes to a dangerously seductive corner of the culinary world. I asked my co-worker where he bought these tamales, and he shrugged his shoulders. Didn’t remember, he said. From some guy. On a street corner somewhere.

Even today, when I walked into the office to my fourth tamale morning, the sense of picanted peril still loomed large. There on the table sat three bags–unmarked, mind you–filled with different flavors of steamed goodness. I downed one in a jiffy, and when I inquired about the type of meat product in my breakfast laxative, another co-worker gave a cryptic answer.

“El Gato,” he said with a chuckle.

I wonder what he meant?