Tea: Iced, in a Styrofoam cup.
Music: Mexican country, complete with tricolored accordions.
Tiempo: Noche.
Low turnout at tonight's photo opening (although it'll be up another three months, so I'm not tearing out my nonexistent hair). Still, any excuse for comfort food is a valid excuse.
And in my world, variety meats are the quintessential comfort foods. At nine o'clock on a Saturday night, that meant Mexican.
Two Amigos, on 75th Street west of Interstate 36 in Shawnee, Kansas, doesn't have a Web page. Trust me, if it did I'd be pointing you there right now.
It's somewhat ironic that the restaurant is in an old Taco Bell. This happies me, I must say. It's nice to see an independent making it where a chain outpost couldn't.
So, on to tonight's selections -- and be warned, I overdid it a little.
I ordered a burrito de lengua. That's tongue, kids, and I've been eating it since I was a kid. My mom believed in giving me opportunities (orders, if need be) to try new foods, and I acquired a taste for organ meats early on. (All but liver, that is. I like it now, though.)
Then I turned to the taco menu, ordering one de cabeza (head meat), one de buche (pigs' maw) ... and one de tripas. No, that's not tripe. (Not that I don't love menudo, but I'd had a big bowl of it on Thursday.)
Tripas are the Mexican equivalent of chitlins. Yep, intestines. And yes, they'd better be cleaned out really well. I got a bad batch once, and it put me off them for more than a year.
These were perfect, though. Dense, satisfying, the flavor still a bit pungent but without that hint of -- well, caca -- that you get when they're not as clean as they should be. The other meats were also excellent, in their own ways -- from the rich cabeza to the chewy buche to the almost silky lengua.
And I feel much better. Sometimes, you see, the only cure for a bad night is something offal.
Ba dum pum.
Showing posts with label organ meats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label organ meats. Show all posts
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Heartfelt (and Heart Consumed)
Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.
Music: The Beatles, "In My Life"
Time: Night.
Father's Day is still more than a week away, but my son will be in Australia on the 15th. So tonight, we staged an impromptu early celebration.
It all started while we were cleaning the gutters in anticipation of tonight's predicted thunderstorm. Somehow, the topic of organ meats came up.
The women in the family, who were away at a carnival, do not want such delicacies. We XY types beg to differ.
My son has had tripe and mountain oysters. Before tonight, he had not had beef heart (although he's consumed a few of the turkey variety during various holiday seasons). We started talking about heart and kidneys, and how tonight would be an ideal time to try one or the other.
With only one functional car, though, that meant a one-mile (each way) walk to the nearest market that sells organ meats on a regular basis. I've been dealing with a tweaky ankle, as you all know from my recent whining, but it's been feeling better.
The final piece fell into place when he said, "I'm buying."
So, long story short, we found both heart and kidney at the market. We flipped a coin and came home with the former. (Got away cheap, too -- heart is just 99 cents a pound.) On the way back, we talked about the ethic of nose-to-tail eating -- the idea that one can and should make use of every edible cut -- and about the fun of adventurous consumption.
There are all sorts of ways to cook heart. (One suggestion -- to stuff each chamber with a different ingredient -- sounded delicious but would have taken more time than we had.) We decided to do it the way my late father -- who died when my son was five -- liked it. While he picked mulberries from the tree in the back yard, I put potatoes on to boil (for mash) and started slicing the heart into thin strips.
(First, though, I peeled off the tallow and rendered it in a skillet, for use in pan-frying the meat. Transfat, schmansfat ... we wanted flavor.)
I dredged the slices in flour, seasoned with kosher salt, freshly cracked pepper and garlic powder. Then I fried them in the skillet (cast iron, of course). The drippings formed a base for gravy, which went over the mashed potatoes.
And yea, verily, it was good -- and not just from a food standpoint. It was a way for my son to learn more about a grandfather he knew for only a short time, and for me to remember my father.
Sometimes, ghosts at a table make for an uncomfortable dinner. In this case, though, the third diner -- in spirit -- was more than welcome.
Music: The Beatles, "In My Life"
Time: Night.
Father's Day is still more than a week away, but my son will be in Australia on the 15th. So tonight, we staged an impromptu early celebration.
It all started while we were cleaning the gutters in anticipation of tonight's predicted thunderstorm. Somehow, the topic of organ meats came up.
The women in the family, who were away at a carnival, do not want such delicacies. We XY types beg to differ.
My son has had tripe and mountain oysters. Before tonight, he had not had beef heart (although he's consumed a few of the turkey variety during various holiday seasons). We started talking about heart and kidneys, and how tonight would be an ideal time to try one or the other.
With only one functional car, though, that meant a one-mile (each way) walk to the nearest market that sells organ meats on a regular basis. I've been dealing with a tweaky ankle, as you all know from my recent whining, but it's been feeling better.
The final piece fell into place when he said, "I'm buying."
So, long story short, we found both heart and kidney at the market. We flipped a coin and came home with the former. (Got away cheap, too -- heart is just 99 cents a pound.) On the way back, we talked about the ethic of nose-to-tail eating -- the idea that one can and should make use of every edible cut -- and about the fun of adventurous consumption.
There are all sorts of ways to cook heart. (One suggestion -- to stuff each chamber with a different ingredient -- sounded delicious but would have taken more time than we had.) We decided to do it the way my late father -- who died when my son was five -- liked it. While he picked mulberries from the tree in the back yard, I put potatoes on to boil (for mash) and started slicing the heart into thin strips.
(First, though, I peeled off the tallow and rendered it in a skillet, for use in pan-frying the meat. Transfat, schmansfat ... we wanted flavor.)
I dredged the slices in flour, seasoned with kosher salt, freshly cracked pepper and garlic powder. Then I fried them in the skillet (cast iron, of course). The drippings formed a base for gravy, which went over the mashed potatoes.
And yea, verily, it was good -- and not just from a food standpoint. It was a way for my son to learn more about a grandfather he knew for only a short time, and for me to remember my father.
Sometimes, ghosts at a table make for an uncomfortable dinner. In this case, though, the third diner -- in spirit -- was more than welcome.
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