Nachos

Dad was a commercial printing salesman in the 50s.  These were the days of two-hour lunches, lavish gifts at Christmas, and business trips that were more trips than business.  Dad was never much to take up the travel boondoggles, except for one time, when the offer came around to do a week’s worth of fishing on Lake Lyndon B. Johnson.  For a guy who always wore a sport coat for nearly every social occasion, fishing was the notable, and happy, exception to many of his life’s rules.

Dad did bring back a catch from this trip, but not in the traditional sense.  He was a lifelong appetizer hound, and wouldn’t stop talking about this amazing snack he’d had in Texas.  He promised he would recreate it the following weekend, and gave it plenty of buildup every night he came home. 

Sunday finally came around, and Dad prepared the snack with the meticulous precision he was known for as a cook, proof he likely should have been an engineer.  He managed to find corn tortilla triangles (think 1970s Detroit), and carefully spread about 15 of them, evenly spaced, on a cookie tray. Next came a modest square of Kraft New York (why New York?) Extra Sharp Cheddar Cheese in the middle of each chip.  Finally, and with amazing caution, came the smallest piece of green vegetable I would ever see.  Midwest, meet the jalapeno.

They came out of the oven with an aroma similar to that of my Mom’s grilled cheese (open faced, broiled, with green olive slices), and an additionally pungent essence.  Melted cheese wasn’t a hard sell in my house, so once the chips were almost cooled, my brother and I dove in.

I couldn’t label the sensation I had as hot, because I was familiar with hot—eat Mom’s grilled cheese too soon, and it’s mouth blisters tomorrow.  This feeling was more like a small flame of liquid that left a hit of greasy flame wherever it hit your mouth, and it stayed there for a very, very long time.  While part of me was concerned I was doing irreparable harm to my taste buds, my love for Dad, combined with his reassurance that all would be well, led me to persist—and it was worth it.

About three chips in, my brother used his superior instincts for self-survival to scrape the jalapeno chip off, hoping to quell the furnace.  It really didn’t; the oils from the jalapeno had seeped into the melted cheese, spreading like a small-scale grease fire.  But the visual absence of the jalapeno added  psychological comfort, so off they came, when Dad wasn’t noticing. 

It turns out the only place Dad could find jalapenos in 1970s Detroit was in Mexicantown, the southwest corner of the city that has been home to Hispanics (and great food) for decades.  This meant the jalapenos in question were the real thing, a memory that wouldn’t be surpassed until I tasted the pepper that puts the Pao in Kung Pao Beef about ten years later.

Restaurants say they serve nachos, but most of them look, and taste, like exploded tacos.  That’s OK, but they aren’t really nachos, the ones that started it all.  I kind of get it—you probably can’t charge $15 for a dozen chips with cheese and specks of jalapeno—but the taste isn’t close to authentic (and don’t get me started on “liquid cheese”).  That’s why I pass up their nachos for whitefish spread, and make my mine at home. It’s better to hold out for the real deal.

Spectrum

The triple cross-boned hot sauce
The habanero’s habanero
That weed grown
On the dark side of the Himalayas
Only guides know about.
Good stuff, sure.
But try and hold
Rightly bruleed sugar
Til the grains glisten
Then tell me
Your tastebud’s supremacy.

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