Taco Bron, Tucson

Somebody please tell me: what the f&%@# is a "bron"?
I hate to come off as shallow and uninformed but honestly, this is one of the reasons we had yet to investigate this unassuming Mexican eatery. Well- the bron thing and the part where it it now inhabits a Pollo Something former fast fowlfood building on the corner of 1st and Ft. Lowell, not exactly the most charming of Tucson locales. I'm sorry, I was wrong.

Inside is cute and unassuming, a cute little mural, complete with questionably correct ethnic stereotypes, dormplantcuttings rooted in water on the tabletops and a cute little bar, including more sleeping mustache-sombrero men carved on it's panels. Service was attentive and efficient, we ordered guacamole and beverages and then the love began...

My margarita was served in a mason jar, tasty, plentiful, full of tequila and light just as I like 'em. Mason jars are our glassware of choice at home and set the mood perfectly for the rest of the meal, which in turn set the mood perfectly for a decadent afternoon nap, which I must point out was a nap of choice, rather than the usual overstuffed Mexican foodcoma I usually fall into.

Chips- more than we could handle- and guacamole, came with crisp pico and warm refried beans. The guac was chunky, uncomplicated and served on a layer of shredded lettuce for a pleasing mouth mix of crunchy, crispy and avacadoey. You would think it would be hard to simultaneously scarf down guacamole goodness and grin ear to ear while swigging bigass margarita but apparently I am developing some multitasking abilities.

Lunch for me, fabulously fresh (surprising in a land locked state) "numero cinco" was a reasonably portioned combination of fish taco, shrimp taco and shrimp caramelo with rice and beans. I always appreciate chunky lime wedges and it, with more of the spicy pico is the prefect accompaniment for the light, flavorful, butter-n- cilantro sauteed seafood.

Dustbin enjoyed "numero dos" combo of 2 fish tacos and a carne asada vampiro (originally he was all about the veggie chorizo but alas, they were out of this offering) and he actually ate the rice and beans that over-appetizer-indulgence left me without the wherewith all to attempt.

Everything was ridiculously reasonably priced, my beverage topping the price list at $9 and well worth it. I didn't have one bite that I did not enjoy tremendously and as I drifted off to sleep a scant half hour later, my tummy cheerfully rather than uncomfortably full I smiled at the thought that I live in a world full of wonder and delight and still wonder what the funk a "bron" is anyway.

Check out their menu online!

for the love of the (under)dog

Recently at home, enfolded lovingly in the arms of friends and family, haunting familiar streets, watering holes and establishments of bread-breaking filled with the faces of my past I fell in love. My love has always been there, waiting quietly, in an unassuming way for that comfortable familiarity to blossom, into the warming glow of love. My love is a simple sort: nothing flashy or fancy, no pretense there. My love is Gilley's, and I never knew I loved it until it was there- as it has always been. Well, it hasn't exactly always been there, Gilley's is a refurbished train car diner car of a sort and has the dubious honor of having amassed the most parking tickets in the history of Portsmouth NH before planting itself firmly in its home between the parking garage and The Coat of Arms booze dispensary, no doubt much to the chagrin of the local Historic Committee Nazi dictators who are wildly gentrifying everything in sight to create a Disney style port town for overfed citydwellers to spend their dollars in on "quaint" weekend visits. Massholes go home.

Gilley's has, however, always been there for me. Regardless of which of the fabulously gourmet high- end downtown bistros the evening began with, whatever bar (in Portsmouth there is one about every 1/2 block) facilitated overindulgence in both Irish whiskey and secondhand smoke all roads lead to Gilley's. As a bartender in that town it was often my job to scoot out the back door while patrons were being pushed out the front in an, often futile, effort to procure kraut dogs and double cheeseburgers before the last call masses descend in hungry hordes and I was never too far above elbowing past an unsteady patron I had rendered tentative on his feet to spend the cash I had charmed him to part with on the chili fries he had his heart set on. Yeah, I'm cruel like that and we all know the milk of human kindness dries up long before bar time and nothing replenishes the soul like one of those tiny school cafeteria cartons of Hood's chocolate variety.

Gilley's is a welcome bit of grit and actual local color, a metaphoric pair of ratty old kicks hanging inexplicably from a telephone wire, it refuses to be spruced up or easily removed. This is the parking lot where drunken fistacuffs will ensue over pursuit of the hand of some local lovely, where many a lastcall hookup will be confirmed with a mustard kiss and digit bearing paper napkin, this is where you find the friends you lost along the way, never met up with in the first place or where you find the friends you should have been friends with all along. My old roommate even unwittingly carried a dead body from this asphalt slab into the square, thinking his cargo so heavy by virtue of too many cheese fries- he was cute so he didn't really need to be smart and he had nothing to do with actually making the body dead in the first place. Inside Gilley's is no less dangerous but it is more of the slow death transfat sort of gentle homicide, committed by the delightfully sarcastic grill gods and you welcome that sort of death as a side dish for your bad decisions like the hug of a split bun. in Gilley's you know what you want or you step to the back of the line and if that isn't a metaphor for life you deserve to be passed over until it is.

So thank you Gilley's for the comfortable padding you have given to my bottom, for the shelter from the cold of an overly groomed downtown and a belly warm from processed meat and melted cheese. Thank you for being the last stop at the end of a night I wasn't quite ready to see draw to a close and for fortifying me body and soul for the journey home to bed, my own or, in my heyday, some other. I love you Gilley's, because you are rough edges and bad decisions and for gleefully doing best for me what is probably notsogood for me. I love you for waiting patiently, stalwartly and confident that I would someday realize how much you mean to me. Thank you.
http://www.gilleyspmlunch.com/

bunny lovin'

Original Post Aug. 23, 2006

I am an addict.
I am a junkie.
I am a fiend.
I guess this is the place where I suppose I should be overwhelmed in my unhappiness with my addictive disorder and make some sort of poignant plea for forgiveness….understanding….help. Truth told: I like what I am doing, I am willing to suffer the side effects, bear the consequences and cheerfully claim complete responsibility for my actions. I don’t want help, I will not stop and I am far too content to change; personal growth is vastly overrated anyway. I don’t have a problem I have a happy habit.
I can’t get enough of the cheese- macaroni and cheese.
I am a macaddict.

It all began in college, a time when much behavior begins to get a little out of hand. Child genius, college crash pad at 16, far away from loving parental guidance I had my very first late-night blue-box experience. Coming from the whole-wheat hippie household, my first Kraft blast was like a personal epiphany:
Food
Good
Cheap
In a box
Now

That night began a years long love affair with the box of blue, every night it was me and the mac. I even had a roommate with similar habits who had the god given gift to be able to make a double box blindass drunk, too stoned to speak and none of the requisite butter and milk in the fridge. It would come out perfectly every time. We were roommates for years and even had a song about the beloved box-o-food. Long after college we languished long, late nights in blissful mactopia. Recent reunion turned talk back to good ole’ days, back to mac and the song came back; each having continued to siren boiling saucepots in our own kitchens and own lives all these years hence. Spontaneously in unison we serenaded our astounded audience with the heavenly hymn:

Macaroni and cheese
Macaroni and cheese
Hook me up please
With macaroni and cheese

Hey, man, I never said it was particularly inspired.

I still box about 3 times a week, my favorite lunch of choice and I have long since refined my tastes, opting now for the Bunny Mac, whole wheat shells n’ cheddar. Without the Guru of the Blue, I have developed my own particular science of cheese, which involves boiling for eight minutes, adding Greek yogurt, an exact allotment of an assload of Thai chili and holy basil sauce, a dash of sesame oil for that lovely nutty flavor and grating in a pile of the extra-sharp New York cheddar. Yum.

At one of those chicks drinking wine gatherings recently I discovered I was not alone in my macdiction, though my macatite was a bit more voracious than many others present. I learned a lot that evening: Trader Joe’s is another popular option and one can tell a lot about a person by how they mac. A dear friend of mine had never ventured far outside the box and only macs with tuna and peas (although she is a caterer, she needs to get out more and upon hearing my macsterpiece, she forced me over to demo my madness so she could step closer to that edge for which she secretly yearns). Another party guest and recent transplant to Brooklyn, disclaimed her staunch sticking by the printed-on-the-box instructions by prefacing it with confessions that she has never eaten chili (the kind with beans, which she dislikes) and had only just had her first seafood experience. That poor, sheltered child…go the hell back to Michigan.

I am now a recent refugee, my house still in shambles, littered with the unpacked and the wheredoesthisgo. Last night in complete exhaustion I shopped the big shop although I was unable to find some of the perfect ingredients. I am edge-liver, willing to experiment with the bunny mac dosage and will try any combination of condiments in my quest for macvana. It was not until bundles were trundled into the kitchen that I remembered not having remembered to unpack the kitchen crap. Nine boxes of variously labeled cartons stood before and between me and my mac- not one of them labeled “saucepots”. Four boxes and three hours into my quest for queso, long since having switched from cerveca to whiskey, I abandoned the hunt for household implements and settled for leftover Chinese. Not really the same at all. I was shaking and weird, jonsing for my fix and unsatiated in my search for the sacred shells n’ cheese. I drank alone last night to try to drown my sorrow and disappointment, to try to fill the emptiness of my unfulfilled longing, my blue box blues.

A new day dawned, albeit painfully and once home from the gym I readdressed my quest with renewed vigor and determination, rewarded halfway through my second crate with the flash of stainless; the “pot of …” at the end of my rainbow. Appropriately impressed by the solemnity of my first bunny mac in the new pad I sat down to feed my need and found that today a new pasta day had dawned, bringingwith it a whole new flavor. Neufchatel, chili in soy and “firehot” chili oil: not altogether unpleasant, a sweet n’ hot event, much in keeping with the rest of my life at the moment so the weight of this macmentous occasion needed commemorating.

I’m now driving my first-ever newnew car, loaded and lifted with every accessory and doodad the factory offers, extra this and bigger that, more powerful and shiny than anything I roar past on the road. I am enriched by my addiction and I celebrate the newness of this experience with something honoring the familiar. When you spot that bright yellow cruiser with the “macnchz” plate, honk or take a moment of silent self-benediction to thank the things that get you through the days. Give homage what helps in good and bad times. Celebrate what nourishes your journey from the familiar to the found and embrace the goodness of what is good to you. There is cheesy comfort in all of it.

food fun

I like to take pictures of people with food, notsomuch, really, the food itself but the activity that surrounds food. I like how food draws people out of themselves and becomes a catalyst for the letting down of one's guard.
Food (and drink) are social sustenance and the event of sharing them is, in itself, wonderfully candid. One never shares a meal or drink with a stranger, somewhere between draft and dredge, between pulling up a chair and pushing back a plate, friendships and kinships are formed, common ground is landed upon and colonized.
Folks and food
Family fun
Dinner Party