Take a nice firm avocado and cut it in half, discarding the pit and skin
Mash it with a potato masher
Mix lightly and serve
Some of our most cherished culinary moments may be of downing a hot dog or pretzel, an ice cream or a knish, that is, if we are an American. For the Japanese, it may be a steaming takoyaki ball; for Egyptians it's a fragrant bowl of fuul. And for Mexicans it's a tamal, an atole or a taco de chicharrón. Sold from a basket, a cart, an improvised stand, a truck, out of a doorway, on the beach, in a market stall, all are street food. The common factors are that the food is cheap, ready to eat and portable.
According to streetfood.org, street food constitutes up to 40 percent of the daily diet in the developing world. In many countries where people can't afford to eat in sit-down restaurants, all kinds of food are available, any time of day, and practically anywhere. And in large urban settings, people often just don't have time to sit down.
Street food recipes tend to be traditional, unaltered by globalization or modernization. While it is found all over the world, especially in Asia and Latin America, perhaps only Thailand vies with Mexico for such astounding variety. In the sprawling metropolis of Mexico City, at practically every corner, beloved dishes are cooking as you walk by, the heavenly aromas drawing you in.
Regional variations abound. In the high altitude center of the country, where our capital sits, the earthy roasting fumes of grilled meat tacos and a large variety of corn-based snacks pleasantly interrupt the (mostly) clear sun-drenched air. On the Pacific shores, seafood is the thing, from sparkling tangy ceviches to crispy fish tacos, or whole fresh fish splayed, slathered with chili paste and grilled as you listen to the waves roll in. The Caribbean coast also takes advantage of the ocean, with Spanish, African and indigenous influences evident. The variety is infinite.
When I first came to Mexico, almost 25 years ago, I was told not to go anywhere near the food I saw on the street — and I didn't. "You'll get sick," the pessimists assured me. "Don't drink the water," they admonished, fingers wagging. Having grown up in lower Manhattan surrounded by Italian, Jewish, Chinese and Hispanic immigrants and their cuisines, I was an early aficionado of "the authentic": foods prepared by and for people according to their long-held traditions. So I was dying to eat everything I saw and smelled in Mexico. But I held off and stuck to the nicer restaurants, with few exceptions. But I always felt I was missing out. Years later, when I moved to San Miguel de Allende in the heart of Mexico's central plains, I studied Spanish five days a week. Every morning, on the way to class, I would pass a festive, bustling stand that sold huaraches, large oblong slabs of corn masa (dough) dry-roasted on a griddle and heaped with smoky grilled meat, avocado, tomato, onion, queso fresco and various salsas. This stand was always busy, the savory fragrance perceptible a block away. My mouth would water like a hungry dog. I always passed it right by without availing myself, proud of my righteous self-control. "Don't eat on the street.” those voices echoed. Period. No exceptions.
Then, as the years went by and I moved full-time to Mexico, I just broke down. How could I, a self-described foodie, live in such stern abnegation in the face of this veritable banquet taking place 24 hours a day, I asked myself. I started with the seemingly safe and graduated to the hard stuff (chicharrón or pork skin and lengua or tongue tacos became my favorites). I now look at small stands and market stalls as micro-restaurants where I can see what's being cooked, and by whom. The raw ingredients are right there before my eyes. Most of these operations specialize in one dish so you're assured they know what they're doing. I feel as safe eating in these places as in restaurants. Sure, there are rules to follow -- stick to busy places, avoid food fried in old oil, seafood sitting in the sun. But when I finally got over my fear and prejudice, a whole world of "real" Mexican food opened up to me. I have never gone back.
Have I ever gotten sick? Well, yes, a few times. Last time was after a buffet dinner at the home of an American friend. Go figure. Now, an incredible "authentic Mexican" feast has been spread before me, a dream-like cornucopia, an impossible buffet. Crusty corn-fragrant sopes piled high with spicy chorizo, potatoes, lettuce and spiky salsa. Hand-made quesadillas filled with everything from squash blossoms to huitlacoche (corn fungus). Steaming hot tamales filled with mole or salsa verde. Crispy tostadas heaped with fresh ceviches of crab, fish or shrimp. And the tacos, the endless variety of them! Tacos de guisados, stews, red, yellow, green and black, spooned into hand pressed tortillas. Tacos al carbón, meat grilled to smoky perfection and augmented with freshly ground salsas. Gamey barbacoa of mutton scooped right out of the maguey leaf in which it has been roasted and garnished with chopped onion, cilantro and lime. And that Mexico City classic, tacos al pastor, a legacy of the Lebanese immigrants whose lamb shawarma was "Mexicanized" to include pork and pineapple.
So what about that legendary stand in San Miguel de Allende? I still dream about it. Years ago the plaza was remodeled, chasing away the vendors. It disappeared forever. My loss - and theirs.
Note: See my many previous posts and/or my book for advice on where to eat street food in Mexico City. And for my New Yorker readers, I heartily reccomend the 'antojito' truck that parks on Roosevelt Av. between 74th and 75th St. in Jackson Hts. Queens.
A note to my DF readers:
The 'Mercado de 100' will take place this Sunday, June 26, from 9:30-2:30 in the Plaza Rio de Janeiro, Colonia Roma.