This causes pangs of nostalgia. My wife went to San Diego recently to visit her family (alas, I haven't yet built up sufficient vacation time to have gone with her), and she happened to snap a picture that had Filiberto's in it.
That hurt.
Filiberto's is a taco shop, open 24 hours, which has a drive through. San Diegans reading this will understand the gravity of my heartache. Those of you in the rest of the world will hopefully find this intriguing and edifying.
Filiberto's is in Encinitas, near the corner of Highway 101 and Encinitas Boulevard. There are a number of them, but this location has happy memories for me. Taco shops in the San Diego area are a wonderful thing, a true cultural distillation. They serve Mexican food, and they are loved by Mexicans and Gringos alike. It is 2,596.72 miles away from my stomach right now. If you're reading my blog for the first time, I'll let you in on a secret: food is an important part of my life.
Taco shops in San Diego usually have orange formica booths and cheesy velvet paintings of Aztec warriors cradling unconscious damsels in their arms. Items on the menu are often misspelled. There is no kid's play area. There is no McCafe. The help does not kiss your ass just because you're a customer. They speak English, but not as well as they understand it. If you're a pain in the ass white person, they understand less and less. I love it. "Kahepyou?" the man behind the counter barks.
"Yeah, hi."(loudly, because people of other cultures can understand you better if you shout) "I want like a bean and cheese burrito or something. And do you have like fat free beans or something? and what kind of sour cream do you use? And hold that stuff. That, I don't know, that hot Spanish sauce. And I hate guacamole. You always put guacamole on it."
"Go straight to hell," the counter man's eyes say, but he muddles through well enough to finish the transaction. Taco shops are in business, and they don't whitewash it with a bunch of bullshit. Order your food and get the hell out. They won't pretend to care about you. That's fine by me; I'm not there for group hugs.
Filiberto's has a couple of outdated video games and a jukebox full of Mexican popular music. It cannot be improved upon, unless they could start serving ice cold Pacifico. The burritos are as big as my forearm (carnitas and carne asada are my preferences there, roasted pork and grilled beef, respectively), and the Super Nachos necessitate a week of hibernation, like a boa constrictor after a nice meal of a whole sheep. It's a pile of chips covered in sliced grilled beef, refried beans, sour cream, shredded cheese, pico de gallo, and guacamole. I get a few little plastic cups of hot sauce (the guy behind the counter, as he's handing me my styrofoam container of goodness, barks, "Hossauce?"), a fistful of napkins, and a large tamarindo (a sweet, brown refreshment that I might describe as a slightly earthy version of apple juice), and head to the beach to gorge myself and watch the waves. It's only a couple of blocks away.
Simple, wonderful, somewhat unhealthy bliss. I miss that.
1 comment:
What, no ground beef covered with yellow gluey cheese food substance on mediocre-looking chips? I thought that's what nachos north of the border were all about. You've given us an idea for a place to visit when we go out after Thanksgiving. Hope this doesn't cause you more pain, but maybe we can dine on the beach in your stead.
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