Taco Sundays

There's something about tacos...
Being raised in a bicoastal family has its perks; 4/5 of my immediate family are California natives, and with the entire extended family smattered across the West Coast annual pilgrimages from Virginia to California were frequent and with them always brought exciting new twists of culinary delight and exploration. Even as a young child I could differentiate between my mother's tacos (strictly Tex-Mex, virtually unrecognizable by any Baja vendor) and the street tacos sizzling on Tijuana corners, piled high with cilantro and onions as their only garnishes. Despite my appreciation for authenticity even now as I live less than 20 miles from the international American/Mexican border, when I trek back to Virginia as a visitor with grand spewings of carne asada and horchata (unknown to all suburbanites east of the Mississippi), part of my gluttonous nostalgia craves the 'authentic' tacos of my childhood. Despite dripping with Costco-bought ingredients, these crisp hot nuggets of my upbringing resonate in me more than any tacos I've ever enjoyed south of the border. I'm convinced that my extremely devout and Republican mother must have made a pact with the devil in return for his provision of a magical 'mom spice' that instantly guarantees any meal prepared by her hand trumps any potential competition.

Taco Sundays
When I picture my mother, the vision always remains the same: wild curls of thin-but-shiny hair spritzed into an immoveable helmet crowning an untanned spectacled face, darting gray eyes with nonexistent lashes and daily drawn-on brows with a slight pumpkin-colored tinge, arms constantly moving in a symphony of conversational expression, meal preparation, or simply tidying the ongoing litter trail left by her husband and children, a voluminous body measuring in at 5'5” radiating maternal love and a disciplinarian attitude when necessary, all covered in her omnipresent threadbare red apron depicting a pattern of Christmas Nutcrackers. The apron is ever-present in my mental recall, with its dilapidated hems and grease-spotted front pockets; it has dominated my mother's bosom and torso for as long as I can reach into my memory. If it had the ability to speak, it would easily claim the title of my mother's biographer with unlimited row-front seats to our family's history in and out of the house of conversations, interactions, and most importantly, meals.

To the modern day on-the-go family, the tradition of eating a meal as a family has almost completely disintegrated, remembrances only depicted on sitcoms and antiquated books. However, growing up in the Demmon household the family meal was never a question, only a certainty that at the end of the day we would regroup, shake the day's dust from our heels, and enjoy the fruits of my mother's labor. Weekends only prolonged the time available for an extended meal open to family and friends alike, and after church on Sundays it was understood that meal time was as holy as the prayers uttered earlier in the day. My mother's culinary magnetism slowly seeped throughout the neighborhood, and once we hit the teen years, she found herself as the second home to many a starved boy requiring the same caloric intake of bull elephants to feed their frenzied growth into manhood. As a California native transplanted in a suburb of Washington, D.C., my mother's table often included Mexican-inspired staples such as salsas, tacos, enchiladas, and other sizzling dishes not often found in the white affluent white neighborhoods of upper middle class Virginia. Her culinary wizardry became available every weekend in what became known as Taco Sundays.

With 3 biological children born within 3 years of one another, my mother's network of additional mouths to feed exploded once my older sister hit her pubescent years, and with a fresh crop of ravenous fans greedily salivating at her table every weekend my mother concentrated her efforts on what we all loved the best- her tacos and salsa. My mother would take a stack of corn tortillas and fry them in oil in a way that no one west of Texas had ever experienced, providing a crisp, hot shell ready to be filled and devoured; each Sunday she would load her sagging table to the breaking point with searing ground beef seasoned with traditional Mexican spices, fresh sour cream, shredded lettuce, mixed cheeses, and always a huge vat of her famous salsa, each time the heat level a surprise depending on the concentration of the peppers used that week. Authentically Mexican it was not, but the concept of family time centered around a meal was as unfortunately alien to many young attendees as was her introduction of pico de gallo to unsuspecting upper crust progeny.

It remains understood within our family that when my mother serves her tacos, it is the only acceptable time when decorum takes a backseat and we are not required to wait to bless the food before stuffing our faces with the glorious shells- God understands that a cold taco makes a sad meal, and as children we silently thanked him and my mother with full mouths and grateful hearts. However, with a rapt audience ready to kowtow to my mother's any whim, she could never pass up the opportunity to act as a mother and spiritual guide to any available ear once she had attained their everlasting loyalty through their stomachs. Many who passed through her home were starving not only for spiced delicacies previously unknown, but for the radiating servitude and motherhood she selflessly served to any willing to seat themselves at her table. Based on the numbers of youngsters lining up each Sunday, it proved to be a successful line straight into the heart of the community, and once welcomed to the Demmon table, few ever left. Despite moving out from my parent's roof over 6 years ago, I still get the occasional call from an old friend regaling me with a recent story of stopping by my parent's house and being held hostage by my mother until they had been properly fed.

Especially during my turbulent teen years, Taco Sundays proved to be the single point during each week where the typical teen angst and parental embarrassment reached a cease-fire, where parents, children, and friends alike could gather in harmonious union over a table overflowing with beans, rice, tacos, and salsa. Food marches on as the universal unifier of all who share a meal; this singular act of eating together has allied countries and preserved families for generations. Lack of culinary connection weakens communication and unglues the very foundations of households every day, and luckily that line was never tread in my home. Stragglers from broken homes and the offspring of working parents could hardly help being bewitched by the welcoming bounty provided unselfishly by my mother every week. I don't think that any smug satisfaction ever burned within my mother due to the social good she provided, only pleasure in fulfilling her God-given appointment to minister to the community through tacos. I, for one, can't think of a better way to show love and motherhood to those in need of both.

Tacos el Gordo

I feel truly sorry for Americans who consider themselves fans of Mexican food based on their excursions to places like Baja Fresh and On the Border. As a California to East Coast transplant, it wasn't often that I could enjoy a fresh carne asada taco, but I at least knew the difference between MEXICAN food and Tex-Mex growing up. Don't get me wrong, there's a time and a place for Tex-Mex, and I can get down with some fajita plates at Don Pablo's, but I'll always come back to my love of the street taco and lobsters caught that day from the waters around Ensenada.

Considering our proximity to Mexico, it's not difficult to find a great taco anywhere on any given day in San Diego. Still, there are a few joints that truly raise the bar for authentic Mexican food in America. Our friends have been describing the delicious delicacies at Tacos el Gordo on H Street in Chula Vista (less than 10 miles from Tijuana) and with promises of street tacos as good as any from a peddler in Baja, we jumped in the car and barreled down there to sample a few of their offerings.



Obviously, we had to try the tacos de lengua (tongue) and cabeza (head meat), and if you are squeamish about the thought of eating an animal's head, I've got some advice for you- stop being a pussy and just do it. I assure you that the meat skipped over by so many ridiculous Americans is some of the best meat off the animal. It's not like a giant raw tongue in a corn tortilla- it looks exactly like any other shredded meat in a taco shell. Having gotten those ordered, I spied the adobada, and having previously experienced some of the greatest meat flavor available, I added one to our order.



It took approximately 2 minutes from the time we ordered to the time we were paying for our tacos and racing to a table to devour the items on our plates, whose scents were wafting up in a cloud of glory into our nostrils and coating our tastebuds with tantalizing promises of deliciousity. We started with the lengua, which was simple, glorious, and hot off the grill. Tender, juicy strips of meat were stuffed inside a double corn shell, with only the marinade, onions, and a bit of cilantro marrying together in a symphony of fantastic. Still, I thought that was good until we started in on the cabeza. Did I say the lengua was good? Garbage compared to the cabeza. This taco was crowned with a dab of tomatillo green salsa, and was even juicier and more flavor-packed than season 3 of The Surreal Life.



Can it get better? The adobada proved that yes, it could. Heaven in my mouth, this taco blew all other tacos out of the water. Inexpensive, authentic, unbelievable tasting- the only thing that Tacos el Gordo has going against it is it's smack in the middle of a suburb, so unless you're a resident of Chula Vista you're going to have a bit of a drive. Still, it beats crossing the border for some cheap eats, so for a Mexican experience without needing a passport, this place is highly recommended.

Beer Battered Fish Taco Extravaganza

The name Demmon is synonymous with "excellent taco making". Taco Sundays were a regular part of the week for many a young soul in Northern Virginia from 1999-2003, and sporadically since then. Mama D's tacos were a thing of wonderment, and even though I live a stone's throw away from our authentic Mexican friends and eat Mexican cuisine multiple times a week, I often crave the unique flavor that only Mom's cooking seems to be able to capture.

However, I can't remember her ever exploring the art of the fish taco, so I decided for my inaugural taco attempt I would risk everything and go for the gold... en flaky crust of beer battered fish tacos. (Ignore the pun or act impressed). A quick Google search yielded a gigantic amount of results, so being a poor twentysomething I picked the recipes that included the most ingredients that I already had, or could substitute. I already had the red snapper, corn tortillas, extra sharp cheddar, colby jack, and fresh organic romaine, but what is a fish taco without white sauce? Just a dry taco. This search yielded the most hits with approximately 2,993,830,247 different ways to make them, so what I eventually did was:

1/2 cup ranch dressing (it said yogurt but I didn't have any and ranch is delicious)
1/2 veganaise (it said mayonnaise, but since mayo is gross and I would never use it again, why buy it?)
1 jalapeno (big and somewhat wrinkly, I like to think the older they are the hotter they are. This is completely not true.) Can use a habanero, whichever flavor you prefer.
The juice of 1 fresh lime
Generous helping of cayenne (probably around a teaspoon)
1/2 teaspoon oregano
1/4 teaspoon pepper
Add the mayo and ranch/yogurt with the lime, mix, dice the pepper as small as possible and add with the seasonings. Mix well, it should be a little drippy but not runny.

The beer batter was pretty much the easiest thing in the world. 1 cup flour, 2 teaspoons salt, and one beer (not dark). I used Bud Lite because I'm ashamed to have it in my refrigerator and this was a good excuse to get rid of it without having to drink it. I cut the snapper into 1 inch pieces and dipped them in the batter after heating the oil to medium heat. Each piece took about a minute to cook to a light gold color without turning brown and getting burned, and provided a super light, crispy shell that wasn't too "fried". Nothing is more annoying than getting a Fried Batter taco when all you want is some evidence of fish buried deep within the taco. Afterward, I fried the corn tortillas for about a minute, folding them halfway through to ensure the right shape and crispiness! Perfectamundo!

Mama D, you would be so proud.