The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [36]
When we got to Richard and Sam’s apartment, the entire kitchen was steaming. It was autumn, but the kitchen smelled like a taco joint in the middle of a Mexican heat wave. Sam’s normally wavy black hair was matted to her forehead in frizzy curls as she stood by the sink, rinsing her hands.
“Whatever you do, don’t fry in the morning,” she said as she greeted me.
I looked at the counter and saw piles of crisped tortilla strips lying on paper towels. Evidently she meant business when she said she was making chilaquiles the authentic way—the corn tortillas were freshly fried at home. We sat down and brought out the orange juice and seltzer water we’d bought at the corner store on the way over. As we talked, I watched Sam layer a large casserole with the chips and ladle a green tomatillo sauce on top. I got up to take a closer look and offered to help, but she insisted there was little else to do.
“What kind of cheese is that?” I asked as I saw her slicing up rounds from a soft white brick.
“It’s just mozzarella. The real cheese they would use is queso blanco, but since it’s not in most grocery stores, this is the closest thing. It’s pretty much the same thing.” She shrugged.
With my limited experience in Mexican cooking—real Mexican, mind you, not Tex-Mex, not nachos supreme—I wouldn’t have thought to opt for the familiar Italian American pizza cheese. I admired her anything-goes nature.
She next retrieved a Tupperware container filled with shreds of pink-colored meat and began to place chunks throughout the casserole.
“I made roast pork the other night, so this is just some leftovers,” she explained nonchalantly. She left a small portion in the plastic container. “I’ll save some to top this with once it’s out of the oven.”
I helped clear some dishes off the counter and put them into the sink as Sam popped the casserole into the oven. Meanwhile, a pot was still heating over a low flame on the stove.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Black beans,” said Sam, lifting the top to reveal a mass of shiny, purple-black beads bubbling in a viscous broth. “You serve them with pretty much everything. These ones were actually half leftovers, half new ones, after I realized I had some from the other night. So some of them are going to be more cooked than the others. Oh, well.”
Fifteen minutes later, she declared it was time to eat.
“God, I’m so hungry,” Sam said as she plopped herself down at the table. A plate of chilaquiles and black beans was set before each of us. The assembly had been simple: a scoop from the casserole of chilaquiles on one side, and a scoop of the black beans flush against it. On top of the chilaquiles Sam had placed a few thinly sliced rings of onion, the warmed extra shredded pork from the leftovers, and a dusting of cotija cheese.
I took my first taste of the beans, which were salty and hearty. I could be happy just eating a plate full of those. But I quickly moved on to the chilaquiles. Sam’s homemade tortillas crackled in my mouth, and the small explosion was followed by the sharp tang of the tomatillo sauce.
“Oh, wow,” said Ben, wiping his mouth.
“Like it?” Richard asked.
We both nodded ecstatically. Sam, being modest, just shrugged and shoveled the food into her mouth. There was plenty of food for seconds, which we all helped ourselves to. From watching her layer the casserole to observing her garnishing it once it was baked, I was keeping tabs on every step of the process, thinking of how I might make it myself. But there was one key element I’d missed out on observing: the tomatillo sauce.
“How come you always see green sauce with chilaquiles?” I asked Sam.
“You don’t have to; you can make it with red chili sauce if you want. Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just whatever you have on hand.”
I appreciated this flexibility, but there was no way I’d have either tomatillo or red chili sauce left on hand very often.
Ben