The Good Stuff, Part II: The Food

Back in my early Taos days of wretched poverty, emotional ruin, and molar-cracking bitterness — they tend to go together — I once stood paying my bill in the dentist’s office, coincidentally enough, going loudly bipolar on the sweet Latina staffers about how there wasn’t any government here and everyone should leave. At that point my dentist looked up from her charts and said, “But what about the food?”

Damn. She had me, even then.

The good doctor probably meant the restaurants, there being an extraordinary number of fine ones, including the best we’ve ever been to in our lives (Joseph’s Table). You know that one was special because I spent $150 on the two of us and didn’t regret a penny. For someone like me, this is miracle territory. It was so good, I laid down my silverware between bites to stretch things out. Serious fun.

The restaurant scene is changeable. Around a core of longtime local favorites, the others come and go, hanging on for several months, then changing hands or disappearing altogether. ‘Twas ever thus in a tourist town, I suppose. At any rate, I’ve never lived anwhere with so many outstanding choices, and some of them are almost cheap. It’s a huge change from where we used to live in Maryland — back in Chestertown, whenever my honey wanted to eat out, I would mostly only roll my eyes and just get into trouble.

But here’s the thing about the food: so much of it is “bio-regional” and/or organic. By bio-regional I mean that you can buy a lot of things produced nearby. They even grow wheat less than 100 miles away, which means I can go into a supermarket and buy bread baked with grain that comes right from the neighborhood. For organics, there’s a local institution called Cid’s. It’s a lively emporium that’s dispelled forever any doubts I may have had about organic foods and the marketing thereof. Back in Maryland, the small organic produce section at the local Super Fresh was a listless dump of dull, bruised apples and overpriced zucchini. (Things may be better now, of course.) At Cid’s, the produce section is a sea of gleaming fruits and vegetables, almost all of them organic. I have friends who don’t shop there because organic produce still costs more, but you only have one body at a time, right, so why mess around?

Take something familiar like Granny Smith apples, for example. We always have a few of those on hand, organic ones, of course. A couple of weeks ago I needed to bake a pie to take to a potluck supper and found myself at a normal supermarket, running out of time. For the first time in years, I bought commercial non-organic apples and went my merry way. A week later, the pie long gone, there were still some leftover Grannies. They looked just as green and shiny as they had under bright lights at the store, but when I cut them open, there were areas of brownish mush. Perfect exterior, corrupt insides! (Talk about your agribusiness metaphors.) Anyway, that hardly ever happens with the organic variety, which simply has more integrity. Arguments about relative nutritional advantages aside, which would you rather put into your body?

The real joys, however, are the organic MEATS! [Insert Homer Simpson sound effect here.] Two nights ago, I had cooking duty. My wife was going to be out late for a rehearsal, and I had promised to cook a honey-curried chicken dish she’d made before. Before that evening, I’d never seen the recipe, and fortunately it was simple. I knew I had to cut the chicken into smaller pieces, no big deal. but note that in my entire nine years in Taos, I had never actually gazed upon an organic chicken breast from Cid’s before. Division of labor, you see: I fry the cows and pigs, my sweetie does the birds.

I picked up the package of organic chicken breast. My God, it was heavy. How many were in there, I wondered? I opened it up, and there was only one! ONE GIGANTIC, GLOWING, THROBBING CHUNK OF CHICKEN WORSHIP LOVE-FOOD!!! There wasn’t a trace of yellow fatty weirdness. The meat was bouncy and seemed to be alive. It may as well have come from outer space, but most certainly was a good ol’ bio-regional bird. Tasty, too, and the leftovers would last a long time in the fridge without going bad, except we’re finishing them tomorrow.

How different from what I knew before. Back in Maryland, the chicken breasts from commercial poultry plants were pitiful, limp slabs of translucent organ donor flesh shot through with yellow streaks of fat and strangeness. They reminded me of dissected fetal pigs in high school biology class, their veins pumped full of colored latex. And the chicken even came with warning labels! Don’t lay this on the counter! Scrub hands after handling! Etc., etc. I sometimes wondered why we bothered, although this did explain why dropping chemical chickens into great vats of boiling fat was the only way to go.

There’s so much more to talk about, and eat. I haven’t even touched on northern New Mexico fare, either — that’s going to take a a book. You also haven’t heard about buffalo meat, wild plums, local honey, or Frito pie. (Hey, some of us like Frito pie.) Maybe in another post. in the meantime, just remember: maybe you can’t make a living, your car is dead and stuck in the mud, the landlord’s brother-in-law keeps his motorcycle in the backyard shed you thought you’d get to use, and winter is six months long, but hell, you get to EAT!

If you didn’t say grace before, you’ll fall into the habit. It’s just as natural as can be.

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Related posts:

1. The Good Stuff, Part I: Grow or Die
2. White Stuff [Updated]
3. More Strange Stuff
4. Surprise Snowfall (& Voting for Obama, Part II)
5. Oh Good Grief!