If my last trip to Mexico is any indication, she's just about to steal someone's kidneys

If my last trip to Mexico is any indication, she's just about to steal someone's kidneys.

I love Mexican food.  If I had only one type of cuisine to eat for the rest of my life it would, without hesitation, be Mexican.  I’m so enamored of Mexican food because 99.7% of it, I’m convinced, consists solely of varying proportions and combinations of tortillas, meat, grease and cheese.  Naturally, one must move aside the conciliatory little salad they also put on your plate; but, for the most part, Mexican food is deliciously terrible for you.  Unfortunately, this richness (though thoroughly awesome) is also the main reason I hesitate attempting Mexican cheferation at home – namely, because I don’t have a huge bucket of the fat that they seemingly slop on every plate they serve up. 

The exception to this lipid-soaked general rule – and the dish I thought I’d use as the first on this blog – is traditional Huevos Rancheros (which, in the original Mayan language, means “cure for the hangover you got from going to that strip club you know you shouldn’t have gone to, and after having had fifteen $25 scotches, got kicked out for throwing up on that one stripper you thought really liked you and who told you she’d call the next day, but didn’t, and you don’t know whether it was because she didn’t actually like you, or, rather, because you did, after all, vomit on her”). 

The best huevos rancheros that I’ve ever had was at some little hole-in-the-wall place, either in Mexico or in San Diego, I can’t quite recall which (but, judging by the fact that I wasn’t watching a donkey show or getting a full-contact lap dance to completion while eating it, I think it’s safe to assume it was north of the border.)  It was a simple dish with simple ingredients, yet it was as though there was a little baby panda riding a unicycle of flavor all over my taste buds.  Here’s how I tried to re-create the dish:

Buy dis stuff, ovah heah:

Green peppers (avoid the red ones, as their color attracts rogue, neighborhood-roving bulls)
Shallots (because plain old onions are for lesbians and dirty, non-committal Unitarians)
African-American beans
Canned, peeled tomatoes (these have to be “San Marzano” brand – they’re the absolute best.  Plus, it says so in the Patriot Act)
Eggs (either from a falcon or, more patriotically, an eagle)
White wine
Tortilla – slightly grilled (preferably under one of those hanging lamps, by a loose-cannon cop whose expensive and dangerous actions the captain is tired of having to explain to the mayor.)

Do dis, tough-guy:

 Saute the garlic and peppers and what-not in the pan.  Open the can of tomatoes with your teeth, like you would your twentieth beer of the evening.  Pour some of the liquid in the pan – the one I just told you to saute that stuff in, not some other, unrelated, pan.  Crush the tomatoes with your hands as though they were the defeat-laden hearts of your vanquished enemies.  Put in some beans, but not their liquid.  Open the wine.  Pour out a little for your dead homies (or, if you’re drinking a zinfandel, your dead homos), then chug the rest.  If you’re like me, you may want to do this step first, as the hangover you’re suffering from may prevent you from efficiently chopping, measuring, and remembering ever urinating on that cop car in the first place.  Although, if you were, indeed, like me, you wouldn’t need anyone to tell you how to make this crap.  Rather, you’d just suck it up, bang a hot chick, and make this thing for brunch the next morning, off the top of your head, right before you told her to scram.  Anyway, now you’ve got a little stew of goodness going on, and you’re going to want to keep simmering that bad boy until there’s just a little moisture left.  Make a couple little wells in there, and drop in the eggs.  Cook until you won’t get salmonella and die, then place it on the grilled tortilla and enjoy.  For an authentic Mexican dining experience, eat your meal of Huevos Rancheros crammed into the cab of a pick-up with five other people.  Mmmmm, the ethnic stereotyping makes it extra delicioso!

Nothing wrong with a little tequila in the morning.  Unless there's any "Tila" involved, of course.

Nothing wrong with a little tequila in the morning. Unless there's any "Tila" involved, of course.

Hooray!  Diversity through cuisine!