Salsa Food Quotes

A farmer friend of mine told me recently about a busload of middle school children who came to his farm for a tour. The first two boys off the bus asked, "Where is the salsa tree?" They thought they could go pick salsa, like apples and peaches. Oh my. What do they put on SAT tests to measure this? Does anybody care? How little can a person know about food and still make educated decisions about it? Is this knowledge going to change before they enter the voting booth? Now that's a scary thought.

Under the twinkling trees was a table covered with Guatemalan fabric, roses in juice jars, wax rose candles from Tijuana and plates of food — Weetzie's Vegetable Love-Rice, My Secret Agent Lover Man's guacamole, Dirk's homemade pizza, Duck's fig and berry salad and Surfer Surprise Protein Punch, Brandy-Lynn's pink macaroni, Coyote's cornmeal cakes, Ping's mushu plum crepes and Valentine's Jamaican plantain pie. Witch Baby's stomach growled but she didn't leave her hiding place. Instead, she listened to the reggae, surf, soul and salsa, tugged at the snarl balls in her hair and snapped pictures of all the couples.

As Amani frantically diced the ingredients for her Pan seared Mahi-Mahi with Mango Salsa, she recalled her first meeting with him during a class he taught on the presentation of food and organization the previous year. Amani had been immediately drawn to the tall, serious Californian, and not just because of his looks. With dark wavy hair, strong features and the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen short of Paul Newman’s, David Spencer was everything Amani admired in a man, and then some. http://omadisonpress.com/romance/all-...

Unlike Japan, Italy's cuisine has long centered on meat dishes. In their home province of Tuscany, duck, rabbit, and even boar would be served in the right season. I suspect that is how they learned how to butcher and dress a duck. The breast meat was glazed with a mixture of soy sauce, Japanese mustard, black pepper and honey to give it a strong, spicy fragrance... the perfect complement to the sauce. Duck and salsa verde. They found and enhanced the Japanese essence of both... ... to create an impressive and thoroughly Japanese dish!

She picked up salted butter, thick Greek yoghurt, and cream. The menu was not modest. Her basket was already heavy with Charlotte potatoes, fresh herbs, and a Duchy chicken. It was too hot for a roast chicken, but Piglet had once heard Nigella say something about a house only being home once a chicken was in the oven. And anyway, there would be salads: one chopped and scattered with feta and sumac, another leafy with soft herbs. New potatoes, boiled and dotted with a bright salsa verde. Bread and two types of butter: confit and Parmesan and black pepper.

We went out with some of the girls from our house to a Mexican restaurant a few nights ago. Jeff invited himself along and seemed to think he’d scored a date with Rose. He sat next to her and kept piling on the compliments. Then the food arrived, and he watched in horror as she put ketchup on her tacos. I’ve had years to get used to this, ever since that time the cafeteria ran out of salsa, but I guess it came as kind of a shock to him. He could barely say a word for the rest of the meal. Now he’s stopped calling.

A dynamo in the kitchen, she was elevating Mexican cuisine to new gastronomic levels. She had opened her restaurant, El Colibrí, two short years ago. At first people thought she was nuts- then they tasted her dishes. Billing her cuisine as "not your mother's tacos," she'd introduced gourmet Mexican food to Los Angeles, and you didn't eat her creations- like the lobster tail served with the pomegranate mango salsa, served on a blue corn tortillas- with your hands, especially with her secret version of a chimichurri sauce. A hint: truffle oil along with olive oil. The girl genius was an alchemist in the kitchen, creating elixirs and blending ingredients like a mad culinary scientist.

So when I get home, I go shopping. I fill the cart with steak, fish, broccoli, avocados, canned squid, tuna, tomato juice, romaine lettuce, sour cream, and cashews—tubs of cashews, because they’ll be my go-to temptation snuffer. Also on the “yes” list: eggs, cheese, whole cream, dry white wine, Scotch, and salsa. But no fruit, breads, rice, potatoes, pasta, or honey. No beans, which means no tofu or soy of any stripe. No chips, no beer, no milk or yogurt. No deli ham or roast beef, either, since they’re often cured in sugar. Turkey was fine if you cooked it yourself, but even then you have to be careful. I thought I’d hit the perfect multi-meal solution when I came across a stack of small Butterballs in the frozen food section, and only as an afterthought did I check the label and discover they were sugar-injected.

SHE HAD WATCHED THEM in supermarkets and she knew the signs. At seven o'clock on a Saturday evening they would be standing in the checkout line reading the horoscope in Harper's Bazaar and in their carts would be a single lamb chop and maybe two cans of cat food and the Sunday morning paper, the early edition with the comics wrapped outside. They would be very pretty some of the time, their skirts the right length and their sunglasses the right tint and maybe only a little vulnerable tightness around the mouth, but there they were, one lamb chop and some cat food and the morning paper. To avoid giving off the signs, Maria shopped always for a household, gallons of grapefruit juice, quarts of green chile salsa, dried lentils and alphabet noodles, rigatoni and canned yams, twenty-pound boxes of laundry detergent. She knew all the indices to the idle lonely, never bought a small tube of toothpaste, never dropped a magazine in her shopping cart. The house in Beverly Hills overflowed with sugar, corn-muffin mix, frozen roasts and Spanish onions. Maria ate cottage cheese.

Everywhere you turn you see signs of its place at the top of the Italian food chain: fresh-pasta shops vending every possible iteration of egg and flour; buzzing bars pairing Spritz and Lambrusco with generous spreads of free meat, cheese, and vegetable snacks; and, above all, osteria after osteria, cozy wine-soaked eating establishments from whose ancient kitchens emanates a moist fragrance of simmered pork and local grapes. Osteria al 15 is a beloved dinner den just inside the centro storico known for its crispy flatbreads puffed up in hot lard, and its classic beef-heavy ragù tossed with corkscrew pasta or spooned on top of béchamel and layered between sheets of lasagne. It's far from refined, but the bargain prices and the boisterous staff make it all go down easily. Trattoria Gianni, down a hairpin alleyway a few blocks from Piazza Maggiore, was once my lunch haunt in Bologna, by virtue of its position next to my Italian-language school. I dream regularly of its bollito misto, a heroic mix of braised brisket, capon, and tongue served with salsa verde, but the dish I'm looking for this time, a thick beef-and-pork joint with plenty of jammy tomato, is a solid middle-of-the-road ragù.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

We can’t afford to winter here, we’ll have to move while we can still get out to sea.” “Fine with me. I’m not sure I can take even another week here. The food—” “Not a Meat Olaf fancier, I gather.” “Can anything be done?” “Well, it’s supposed to be for emergencies, but I guess this qualifies as one.” Unlocking a black valise and gazing inside for a moment. “Here you go,” handing over an ancient hand-blown bottle whose label, carefully engraved and printed in an unfaded spectrum of tropical colors, showed an erupting volcano, a parrot with a disdainful smile and the legend ¡Cuidado Cabrón! Salsa Explosiva La Original. “Couple of drops is all you’ll need really to light that Meat Olaf right up, not that I’m being stingy, understand. My father handed this on to me, as did his father to him, and it isn’t down by even a quarter of an inch yet, so do exercise caution’s all I’m saying.” As expected, this advice was ignored, and next mealtime the bottle got passed around and everybody slopped on the salsa. The evening that resulted was notable for hysteria and recrimination. The luxuriant world of the parrot on the label, though seemingly as remote from this severe ice-scape as could be imagined, in fact was separated from it by only the thinnest of membranes. To get from one to the other one had only to fill one’s attention unremittingly with the bird’s image, abasing oneself meantime before his contempt, and repeat “¡Cuidado cabrón!” preferably with a parrot accent, until the phrase no longer had meaning—though in practice, of course, the number of repetitions was known to run into the millions, even as it ran listeners’ forbearance into the ground. In thus acquiring some of the force of a Tibetan prayer-wheel, the practice was thought to serve as an open-sesame to the Tsangpo-Brahmaputra country as well, a point which old Expedition hands were not reluctant to bring up.

Using a newspaper, sugar packets, and animated hand motions, Callegari reenacts the creation of the Trapizzino, a pocket of crispy dough that eats like the love child of pizza and tramezzino, Italy's triangular sandwich. Skeptics might see in the Trapizzino the sad pizza cone found on food trucks in the United States and beyond, but this is no half-hearted gimmick: crispy and tender, light but resilient, it is an architectural marvel of pizza ingenuity. Not content with traditional pizza toppings, Callegari instead ladles slow-cooked stews of meat and vegetables- tongue in salsa verde, pollo alla cacciatora, artichokes and favas with mint and chili- that perform magnificently against the crunch and comfort of this warm pizza pocket. "The best of old Roman cooking is like great ethnic food- slow-cooked, humble ingredients with big flavor.

Jasmine licked her finger and flipped through her notes: Smoked Chicken with Pureed Spiced Lentils, Hot Ham and Bacon Biscuits, Cassoulet Salad with Garlic Sausages. After three cookbooks, she was finally finding her voice. She had discovered her future lay in rustic, not structure. Oh, she had tried the nouvelle rage. Who could forget her Breast of Chicken on a Bed of Pureed Grapes, her Diced Brie and Kumquat Salsa, her Orange and Chocolate Salad with Grand Marnier Vinaigrette? But her instincts had rightly moved her closer to large portions. She hated the increasing fad of so much visible white plate. She preferred mounds of gorgeous food and puddles of sauces. Jasmine kneaded her heavy flesh and smiled. She had finally found her term. She was going to be a gastrofeminist. She would be Queen of Abundance, Empress of Excess. No apologies of appetite for her, no 'No thank you, I'm full,' no pushing away her plate with a sad but weary smile. Her dishes would fulfill the deepest, most primal urge. Beef stews enriched with chocolate and a hint of cinnamon, apple cakes dripping with Calvados and butter, pork sautéed with shallots, lots of cream, and mustard.

One of my favorite go-to quickie meals starts with toasting some corn tortillas. (Food for Life, the same company that makes Ezekiel bread, makes a sprouted yellow corn tortilla usually sold in the frozen section.) Then I mash some canned beans on them with a fork and add a spoonful or two of jarred salsa. All the better if I have fresh cilantro, salad greens, or avocado to top it all off. If I’m lucky enough to have fresh collard greens, I’ll steam a few leaves and use them as burrito wraps to replace the tortillas. We call them collardritos in our house. Greens and beans—can’t get healthier than that!

Well, Ramón, I must tell you the irony of this entire situation." A smug smile graced Linda's face. "When your father first tried my tacos, do you know what he liked about them?" "He just told me he tried fish tacos during spring break, and that he met a beautiful señorita on the beach. He never said that they were your tacos." She shook her head. "Well, ask him again. And if he still lies, bring him to me---let him lie to my face. Yes, they were my tacos. I had a stand on the beach, and he ordered two tacos and a beer." He'd told Ramón this part of the story many times; he'd just never said that she had been the one to make the tacos. Then again, he had also left out the part about how he had stolen her recipe, if that was true. "He loved the fresh fish." Linda laughed. "No, that was not it at all. Yes, he did love the fish, and he had never had a fish taco. But he loved the fresh salsa. He loved the spicy batter. He loved the handmade tortillas. It's funny to me, because you have absolutely none of those elements left today in your tacos." Linda's words struck Ramón deep in his chest. She was right. Ramón had heard the story so many times. And Papá had always talked about how fresh and delicious all the ingredients were, including the handmade tortillas. Ramón looked at her. "I know. He told me the same thing." Linda placed her hand on Ramón's arm. "Ironic, isn't it? He used to tell me a story about a girlfriend he had in college who had made him an awful taco with canned tomatoes, American cheese, and iceberg lettuce. That her taco was so awful, that he could never marry her. And now, that is exactly the type of taco that you serve in your restaurant." Wow. She was absolutely right. The full reason that Papá had started Taco King was to bring authentic Mexican food to the college kids at San Diego. Somewhere along the line---due to business advisers who'd suggested cutting costs and replacing fresh tomatoes with canned, crumbled queso fresco with American cheese, and handmade tortillas with mass-produced hard shells---Papá had abandoned his vision.

Ramón examined the plate carefully and even lifted it to smell the tacos. There was no fishy scent at all---just a heavenly aroma of ocean mixed with heat. A crispy, yet not greasy, corn tortilla enveloped the fried and battered fish, garnished with lime, avocado, crema, cabbage, and pico de gallo, which was as fresh as his beloved abuela's salsa. Ramón squeezed lime on the taco, raised it to his mouth, and took the first bite. The crunch of the cabbage contrasted with the soft avocado. But the real star was the fish. Crispy, spicy, and delicious. The buttery flesh melted in his mouth. Ramón devoured both tacos in a matter of minutes.

We've done the grilled tomato and peach pizza at Le Papillon Sauvage. We've served the beet and peach soup. And the peach and cucumber salsa over the chicken. The tarts. The cobblers. The homemade ice cream. I don't know. I'm tapped out for ideas." Phillipa rolled a peach on a cutting board, massaging it. "Pork," she said. "Peaches and pork would taste amazing together. Or pan-seared foie gras? What do you think?" "If you can come up with something interesting, I'm all for it." "Me?" she asked. "But you're the chef. And I want to be inspired by you." "That makes two of us," I said. "You're doing amazing things." Phillipa halved a peach, cut into it, and then handed over a slice. "Eat this, savor it. Find your inspiration!" she said, and as I bit into it, I tried, able to focus only on the texture. As the juices from the slice ran across my tongue and down my throat, the sensation transported me to my childhood, to the teachings of my grand-mère in this kitchen, and her recipe for a peach crumble. The way she taught me to knead the flour, butter, and sugar into flaky crumbs, working her gentle hands with mine. I could almost feel her next to me, smell her cinnamon and nutmeg scent.

Sweet Potato Black Bean Burger TOTAL COOK TIME: 35 MINUTES | MAKES 4 SERVINGS This burger is a longevity powerhouse. Loaded with beans, greens, sweet potatoes, and pepitas, it’s the perfect example of a blue zones–inspired twist on a classic American comfort food. The Patty and Buns: 1½ cups rolled oats 1 cup peeled, mashed, cooked sweet potato 1 cup mashed black beans ½ teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons onion powder 1 teaspoon ground cumin 1 teaspoon smoked paprika ½ teaspoon black pepper ½ teaspoon chipotle powder, optional Oil for cooking 4 whole wheat burger buns The Sauce: ¼ cup toasted pepitas ¼ cup good-quality salsa verde The Toppings: 1 avocado, sliced ½ cup loosely packed sliced kale Pickled or thinly sliced raw red onion* To make the patties, pulse the rolled oats in a food processor until coarsely ground and set aside. Combine the sweet potato, black beans, salt, and spices; then incorporate the ground oats. Let this sit for about 5 minutes so flavors can marry. Form the mixture into 4 patties. In a skillet, heat a thin layer of oil over medium heat. Add the patties and fry on both sides until crisped, about 4 minutes per side. To make the sauce: Puree the pepitas and salsa verde in a food processor or blender and set aside. Build your burger: Mash the avocado and spread on the bottom bun. Then, add your patty and top with the pepita sauce. Finish off the burger with kale and red onion, then the top bun. *To pickle red onions, submerge them in white vinegar with a generous pinch of salt for at least 6 hours.

Movies, music, TV, images and even food have become perfected to such an extent that it’s hard to even remember the way things used to be. We look at computers more than we look at the outside world. It may be true in some sense that movies and TV are more entertaining now, although I don’t personally think so. Magazines think they need to Photoshop their images to keep selling copies. There is no defense for artificial food whatsoever, and the problem with artificial music is that the public doesn’t realize that what they’re listening to is not real. It’s not human. The use of live instruments in recordings and in live “concerts” is so rare now that young people (especially in the United States) don’t have hardly any idea whatsoever about how to dance to live music of any sort. They don’t hear human salsa bands, string quartets, jazz bands, funk bands, rock bands or solo instrumentalists anymore. We have enough DJs. We need more high-level live music. There

Speaking of mangoes, one delicious alternative meal is mango salsa, which you can make by chopping mangoes, tomatoes, cucumbers, celery, cilantro, and garlic (if desired) in the food processor. Serve in cucumber boats, lettuce wraps, or over greens. And in place of the avocado-orange juice salad dressing, try mashing up some guacamole, topping your salad with it, then sprinkling the whole thing with lime juice. Another great detox dish is a food-processor grind-up of apples and cauliflower or apples and cabbage.

The American taco can boast of two birthplaces: Los Angeles and San Bernardino, California. But its baptismal font is the pan angrily bubbling with oil at Cielito Lindo, a tiny stand in downtown Los Angeles named after a classic ranchera song meaning “Beautiful Little Heaven.” From here come taquitos filled with shredded beef, grabbed fresh from that roiling pan, then anointed in a creamy salsa, more pureed avocado than chile.

Jasmine opened her fridge and pulled out cauliflower, an onion, garlic, tomato paste, crushed tomatoes and molasses. "Are plant people for or against eating the plants?" Nina asked. "I sure hope they're pro, because vegetarian is what's calling to me." Nina watched Jasmine bread and bake the cauliflower, mash tomatoes in a pot with the garlic, spices and onion, then pan-fry a homemade tortilla. She piled the baked cauliflower onto the tortilla shell, then drizzled a healthy amount of the homemade salsa across the top. She passed the plate to Nina and the aroma of the flavors mixing together reminded her of being outside in summer. She wanted to live on that plate. Nina picked up the taco and folded it, admiring the colors of the ingredients as they blended together like new paint on a fresh canvas. She smiled at the food. "Hello, gorgeous." Then she smelled the taco---spice and lime---before taking a bite. Not only was each part of the dish cooked perfectly, but it also practically melted in her mouth.

two or ALL the puppies if I could’ve. But whatever, it was just cool to have puppies in the mall. My sister’s gonna FREAK when I tell her about it. Anyways, Fergus and Annie returned to our tournament table with the biggest plate of nachos I’d ever seen in my whole entire life, so me and Emma went and joined them. The four of us dug into the towering mountain of chips and cheese and chicken and onions and queso and tomatoes and salsa and sour cream and guac and jalapenos and O.M.CHEESE, it was SO good! I filled my belly with warm food and then sat back, watching all the people around the tournament having fun. What a great start to a weekend full of friends, puppies, and video games. I mean, seriously, everything was PERFECT, and there wasn’t a single thing that could change that… And immediately, Annie goes, “It was stolen,” but she didn’t know that! Isn’t it funny how some people go to the worst-case scenario first? That’s called “catastrophic thinking” and helps ABSOLUTELY NOBODY in times of stress. So, until we had more details, I thought it best to simply call the camera “missing.” I ran up to Callie, HOPING that maybe she had taken the camera to a Lost & Found box somewhere inside Hacktronics, but nope. Apparently, they didn’t have one. Not good. That meant somebody MIGHT have stolen it. I went to the other players in the tournament and asked if THEY saw anything suspicious, but nobody did! I just couldn’t believe it! How was it possible that NOBODY saw some fool GANK an $800 camera?? That doesn’t even make any sense! Fergus had completely shut down. Annie was angry at me. And Emma was just caught in the middle of it, sitting there, like, “Awkwaaaaaard.” Then, outta nowhere, Annie let me have it. She shouted a bunch of stuff at me that weren’t the kindest things ever, but I fixed all that through the MAGIC of editing…

Nina and Sophie were seated at a large round table settled under the branches of a blooming magnolia. The rich scent of the flowers mixed with the incredible food Jasmine and her team had whipped up had built an almost intoxicating aroma. They started off with sesame Halloumi and sweet potato tahini mash, followed by butternut squash and sage risotto, then there were hearty mushroom steaks with a side of roasted eggplant and miso salsa as their main. As they ate, she tasted the flavors from the earth, celebrating the gardens and passionate people around them. Her friend had harnessed the surroundings and created a rich culinary experience for the event.

Harper knew Wayne Storr must've told the kitchen staff to go all out with this dinner, because she couldn't believe the quality of every course. Seared scallops with charred scallions, slow-cooked lamb shoulder with fennel ricotta, grass-fed rib eye with polenta and salsa verde, finished with a tiramisu that made her eyes roll back in her head. At least, that's what it felt like, and if Manny's rapturous expression was any indication, he liked it too. "That is categorically the best meal I've ever had." He patted his stomach and groaned. "And I'm not going to eat for the next week, so I'm stuffed." "Me too." But she knew a good way to burn off the calories, and she couldn't wait any longer. While the food may have been delicious, watching Manny eat had been torture. His lips wrapping around a scallop, his tongue flicking out to capture a dab of salsa verde on his lip, the small, satisfied groan as he spooned the final scoop of tiramisu into his mouth. He'd driven her slowly but surely crazy. It seemed like the entire meal had been one giant exercise in foreplay, and she'd been patient long enough. Time for dessert. In her case, greed was good.

She picked up salted butter, thick Greek yoghurt, and cream. The menu was not modest. Her basket was already heavy with Charlotte potatoes, fresh herbs, and a Duchy chicken. It was too hot for a roast chicken, but Piglet had once heard Nigella say something about a house only being home once a chicken was in the oven. And anyway, there would be salads: one chopped and scattered with feta and sumac, another leafy with soft herbs. New potatoes, boiled and dotted with a bright salsa verde. Bread and two types of butter: confit garlic, and Parmesan and black pepper.

Proximity to livestock and animal feces, I have found in my travels, is not necessarily an indicator of a bad meal. More often than not, in recent experience, it's an early indicator of something good on the way. Why is that? It might have to do with the freshness question. Still living close to the source of your food, you often don't have a refrigerator or freezer. Equipment and conditions are primitive. You can't be lazy - because no option other than the old ways exists Where there are freezers and refrigerators, laziness follows, the compromises and slow encroachment of convenience. Why spend all day making mole when you can make a jumbo batch and freeze it? Why make salsa every day when it lasts OK in the fridge? Try a salsa or a sauce hand-ground with a stone mortar and pestle and you'll see what I mean.

SALSA VERDE. A sauce made primarily of finely minced Italian parsley and cured anchovies... it is often a garnish for grilled meat or vegetable dishes... and is considered a staple sauce in Italian cuisine. "What was he thinking? This was supposed to be a Japanese dish! Making something Italian means he automatically fails!" "No, he does not. This salsa wasn't made from cured anchovies. Instead, it primarily uses uruka, a specific type of shiokara sauce made from sweetfish. *Shiokara is salted, fermented fish viscera.* Uruka typically requires over a week to make. However, this is an "instant" version, is it not?" "Correct! Wash sweetfish viscera and boil them in saké for two minutes. Then flavor with soy sauce, salt and mirin. The result is a quickly made, yet still rich and appropriately bitter, uruka. "Instant uruka?!" "I didn't know that was possible!" "That wasn't the only place he was creative. Instead of parsley, he minced Japanese perilla leaves and green onion to give it a bright green color and refreshing kick. And since garlic is hardly used in traditional Japanese cuisine, he chose yuzukosho, a seasoning made from chili peppers, yuzu fruit peels and salt, to give it a distinctly Japanese flavor." "Exactly. With instant uruka as its base... ... I made a Japanese-style salsa verde!

They sat around the dining table looking innocuous as they awaited my chilled avocado soup. The mango-cilantro salsa made a colorful garnish. But when I brought it out to the table, Todd, the painter, said he was allergic to mangoes, and Carlos from Guadalajara hated cilantro. How could a Mexican hate cilantro, I thought as I spooned out the garnish from Carlos’s bowl. Margo, the macrobiotic, wouldn’t eat avocado since it wasn’t native to the Northeast, and Robert, the banker on the Pritikin diet, was banned from eating it because it was high in fat. Things got progressively worse. Niloufer, the daughter of a Turkish diplomat, took one look at my dolma and said, “That doesn’t look like the ones my grandmother made.” Reza, the Iranian consultant, announced that he wouldn’t eat Turkish food, since his ancestors were murdered by Turks. Todd, I discovered, was allergic not only to mangoes but also to cabbage. He was the only one in the group who touched my umeboshi-cranberry sauce, which the entire group pronounced inedible. Olivia, my fashionable Italian friend, stated that she “simply couldn’t” eat the pine nuts that I had liberally included in my dolma stuffing, and spent the entire meal scratching her plate to spot and discard the offenders. With each dish, I had to recite its ingredients in excruciating detail and answer questions—had I used stone-ground flour? Was the produce organic (it wasn’t)? —all of which determined who would deign to eat my delicacies.

Lettuce Wrap Tacos 1 pound lean ground beef (preferably 97 percent lean) ½ to ⅓ package low-sodium taco seasoning Bibb lettuce TOPPINGS: Sliced avocado Light or fat-free sour cream 2 percent shredded Mexican-blend cheese Salsa Diced tomatoes Diced jalapeño peppers Chopped fresh cilantro Premade pepper mix (see this page) Brown the beef and drain. Add the taco seasoning with water, following the directions on the package. Grab a big leaf of Bibb lettuce and fill with the seasoned beef. Fill up the lettuce with your favorite toppings, then roll up the lettuce.

Breads Canned soups Canned vegetables Cereal Cheese Crackers Cured meats Dried beef Fish sauce Marinades Olives Pickles Potato chips Pretzels Queso Salad dressing Salsa Salted nuts

I fell in love with a North African flatbread," he says of the m'smen baked at Hot Bread Kitchen, a thriving bakery incubator in East Harlem. "It lit our imaginations up." The savory, hand-stretched bread is like a blank canvas, one that Michael and his kitchen crew top in countless ways, from clam, celery root, and salsa verde to corn, green tomatoes, and lamb sausage to pickled peppers and mushrooms.

Jonathan had been celebrated at his original Jams restaurant for the deboned, grilled half chicken he served with fries. "But it was a different beast," he says, in comparison to the pollo al forno at Barbuto, which is now one of the city's most iconic dishes. "I wanted to not waste anything," he says of the choice to roast the bird on the bone at Barbuto. Placing two halves of a chicken in a skillet, he dresses them with olive oil, sea salt, and fresh cracked pepper. He then roasts it in the wood-burning oven, basting it along the way to make succulent, brown, and crispy skin. Beneath, the meat becomes tender and juicy. After letting the pieces rest for a few minutes, he tops them with salsa verde, a mixture of smashed garlic, capers, cured anchovies, olive oil, salt, pepper, and a mash of herbs- such as parsley, tarragon, and oregano- and serves it so simply and yet it's so spectacular. "It became one of my greatest hits," Jonathan acknowledges. "And when people love something, you don't deny them.

But I can divine one thing: in Mexican food's rumble through this country, in the trail behind and the road ahead, I see us -- always evolving, never stagnant, continually striving for something better, constantly delicious. The American spirit manifested as a combo plate, heavy on the salsa.

So when I get home, I go shopping. I fill the cart with steak, fish, broccoli, avocados, canned squid, tuna, tomato juice, romaine lettuce, sour cream, and cashews—tubs of cashews, because they’ll be my go-to temptation snuffer. Also on the “yes” list: eggs, cheese, whole cream, dry white wine, Scotch, and salsa. But no fruit, breads, rice, potatoes, pasta, or honey. No beans, which means no tofu or soy of any stripe. No chips, no beer, no milk or yogurt. No deli ham or roast beef, either, since they’re often cured in sugar. Turkey was fine if you cooked it yourself, but even then you have to be careful. I thought I’d hit the perfect multi-meal solution when I came across a stack of small Butterballs in the frozen food section, and only as an afterthought did I check the label and discover they were sugar-injected. “Garbanzos are pretty moderate glycemically,” I emailed Maffetone after I’d done a little research on my own. “So I’d like to lobby for