In my formative years, Ma and Pa Gastro spent much of my youth trying to hide my Hispanicity (is that a word?). I'm lucky that it was only on the surface. Behind closed doors, we ate beans and green chile every night, sopping up whatever was left on the plate with freshly made tortillas. Now that it's cool to be Mexican, I've come out of hiding, and my Gastro-in-laws have welcomed me and my culture into their family with open arms. As a gesture of gratitude, I agreed to make tamales, something traditionally reserved for a busy kitchen full of old ladies. Lacking the old lady support, I enlisted the help of a Texan who married into the family, and we began the arduous yet fruitful task.
It all starts with a hefty order of pork and chicken. We used a Boston butt and a whole roaster (6 lbs each) from Haring Brothers, an old school country butcher just outside of Doylestown. The meat preparation is simple. Boil until tender (each took about 2-1/2 hours), cool, debone, and shred (and don't forget to reserve the broth). Mix in some secret spices and corn oil, and you have your tamale meat.
Next, make the masa, a dough made using specially treated cornmeal (sold under the name Maseca in the "ethnic foods" aisle), corn oil, secret spices, and the reserved broth. I mixed this by hand (as a Mexican grandmother should), but next time I may opt for the stand mixer.
The end result will be spread into dehydrated corn husks soaked in water (these are also located in the "ethnic foods" aisle), topped with the meat, and rolled up like one of those herbal cigarettes that the long haired kids used to smoke in high school. This is where things begin to resemble a sweatshop, because you've already logged eight hours, and there's no chance you're going to stop with ingredients begging to meet their tamale destiny. So you roll on and stack up, and just when you think there's a light at the end of the tamale tunnel, you still have to steam them. Another two hours--fueled by Pacifico and Jim Beam--and a silent prayer that your Mexperiment doesn't turn out to be a disaster.
Then, as hour thirteen silently passes, you burn your hands removing the first tamale from its husk, cut into it, and rejoice at your accomplishment. A midnight snack so deliciously addictive that my late abuelita would be proud. One hundred tamales later, I survived, along with my Texan Gastro-in-law, the marathon. Buen provecho.
Local Pizza Shop: Hello, Dominick's.
Tearing back the microwave-safe wrapper, I recognized some old friends: leathery cheese, asphalt patty, cloud white bun. Biting into it, I remembered a time when I would knock out two or three of these in one sitting. Artificial grilled flavor ranks up there with artifical grape flavor. Sometimes, the artificial flavor is what you crave. Without the nostalgia, it probably would have been just as good, but for $5.50, I think I would have rather had 30 chicken nuggets from Wendy's (that's a lie. I just like the 99 cent value menu metric). Buen provecho.
Once again, I overdid it with the food. I blame the serving spoons. The "zeets" was even better than last year. More cheese, less sauce, less healthy. Exactly how I like it. There was a surprise dish of BBQ beef brisket on the serving line, which was a tender and smoky treat. I could barely move after my third plate. I could also barely drink, but that didn't really stop me. There was less dancing this time around (my dancing partner, Mrs. Gastro, was unable to attend this year), but I did manage to lead a conga line. The initiative netted a Harry Potter train set, which means I will be taking up model trains in my spare time. Immediately following, the giant candy bar dance-off was set to the Electric Slide, and although I sure had the boogie, I was unsuccessful yet again*. I drowned my sorrows in another pitcher of Miller Lite and waited eagerly for the raffles. I put the lion's share of the family tickets in the most popular of the baskets (sorry Gene, no tickets in the "Chicks Dig Gene Finley" basket): a week at the shore, a golf package with greens fees for two courses, and a 42" flatscreen TV.
I have been known to win a flatscreen TV in my day (I won a 40" at a golf outing a few years back), so I figured I would be walking out the door with that. The chances of winning the other two, judging from the heft of the ticket bags, were slim to none. Through the haze brought on by 4 or 5 pitchers, I listened to foreign number combinations, and watched as all three baskets were claimed by others, along with everything else (including a gardening basket won by the Gastro-in-laws). But there's no reason to be a sore loser. I didn't go home empty handed, but even if I did, I had such a blast that it wouldn't have mattered. Gene and the rest of the Finleys, thanks for another great night. Buen provecho.
Day 3: Steak at Salto del Angel. The Bogota equivalent of Rosa Mexicano, a behemoth restaurant specializing in local fare, including aguardiente, a digestif that's a lot less syrupy (and a lot more drinkable) than Sambuca.
Day 4: Appetizers at 1492. While the apps were delicious, they couldn't compare to the basil ice cream at the end of this finger food meal.
