Guest review: pickled jalapenos

You may remember this week's guest nacho reviewer from her previous opus on cotija cheese. Friends and family, I introduce to you once again Ms. Mo:

I have been wanting to contribute to the Nacho diary, but haven’t because, truth be told, I never order nachos in restaurants. There are numerous reasons for this. First, I live in Texas, where Tex-Mex rules the plate. It is true that things are big in Texas, and that adage applies heavily to Mexican restaurant servings ‘round these parts. Knowing that a five pound platter of beans, meat, cheese, and sauce are on their way to my belly, I know better than to order an appetizer on top of that, lest I leave the restaurant with a fat tummy and diarrhea an hour later. Second, when an appetizer is in order (i.e. not at fucking Chuy’s, home of the enormous plate of calorie-laden heaven), I opt for that of the deep-fried potato oeuvre. But mostly, it is because nachos, whether procured from a classic Mexican-American lard pit or your neighborhood sports bar, unfailingly feature a large quantity of those slimy, fart-flavored pickled jalapenos.

The jalapeno is a glorious pepper, not to be cheapened and tossed around like a butter pickle on a third-rate burger. Anyone who has access to these gems and who has used them to make homemade salsa knows that a fresh, hotter-than-hell jalapeno creates flavor magic that makes comida Mexicana get up and polka. The mass-produced, canned jalapeno, omnipresent on all things called “Nacho,” frankly reminds me of high school football stadiums. For one dollar, you can feed your face with salty, perhaps stale, tortilla chips (fried in one of the “evil oils” like cottonseed or palm oil), a microwaved dollop of canned “nacho cheese” (insert racist joke here) and a latex-gloved handful of those green booger-hued monsters, dripping with their own foul brine. All served gloriously in one of those paper “boats.” Oh, we’ve all seen this artery-busting monstrosity. It smells like the driver’s seat cushion of your fat uncle’s Buick, and yet you accept this as nachos! Disgusting!

Another great nacho violation is the flagrant price-gouging surrounding guacamole. Most places tack on an extra two or three bucks for the stuff, which may or may not come from real avocados. Most likely, it is frozen “Cal-Avo” green avocado whip, which is thin and filled with unholy preservatives and salt. Any moron with a DSL connection can do a Google search on “wholesale avocado prices” and know that the few tablespoons of green goo add up to nothing but a vehicle for greed and profiteering. Guacamole is not alloy wheels or an automatic sunroof: it should not be a pricey option for the nacho consumer! Guacamole should come standard and not be used as a pawn to eke a few extra bucks from your wallet.

So until sw can find me a plate of nachos made with the freshest chips, the most flavorful real jalapenos, and heaping spoonfuls of real, chunky guacamole, I am afraid I will have to play Waldorf and/or Statler to the very idea of nacho consumption. I feel that nachos can be done better at home, with a bag of Tostitos Gold, some real ingredients, and the absence of tacky faux-Latin knickknacks and/or beer-swilling sports fans looking for pussy. Just sayin’.

Editorial disclaimer: The above opinions regarding jalapenos do not reflect the beliefs of the creator of this website. I'm with her on the guacamole price-gouging, however.

How Not to Celebrate Bloomsday: Big Time Brewery, Deluxe Nachos

June 16, 2004: The hundredth anniversary of the day Mr. Leopold Bloom fictionally walked around Dublin, thinking about his unfaithful wife, occasionally crossing paths with young Stephen Dedalus, all the while carrying a bar of lemon soap in his pocket. Every year since god-knows-when, James Joyce aficionados have enthusiastically celebrated this day with re-enactments, public readings of Ulysses, or just trips to the bar for pints of Guinness. For the big 100, my father and I thought we ought to at least do that last one, since we both had to work, and we really aren’t quite nerdy enough for dressing up as Leo and Molly, or Buck Mulligan and Mrs. Grogan, so Dad suggested we meet up at the Big Time Brewery at 5pm, the hour of the Cyclops episode. Unfortunately, he hadn’t done his homework, and it turns out the Big Time, far from being an Irish-style pub, is in fact an independent microbrewery, exclusively serving its own ales, porters, and lagers. We had the option of going uphill a block, to Finn MacCool’s, the local “Irish” pub (note the quote marks), but we simply could not face trying to read Ulysses amongst rowdy frat boys and other genera of doofuses. So we made do with our ersatz Harp’s and our ersatz Guinness, and since there were no kidneys or mutton joints or plums, and the whole Bloomsday celebration was ruined anyway, we ordered nachos.

I can endorse the Big Time’s beers, if you’re visiting Seattle and want to sample the local brews, as many tourists are wont to do. The porter is nice and malty without being too sweet, the ale properly dry and hoppy. But, friends, do not order nachos here. First: the chips were stale and too salty. Second: the cheese, that suspicious colby/jack blend one finds cheap at supermarkets, was insufficiently melted, and rather rubbery. Third: way too many jalapenos. Fourth and finally: the salsa was of a particular type that I have only encountered here in Seattle. I cannot identify it for certain, but it had the overly cilantro-y, stewed tomato-y, hippie-grub reek akin to the San Juan or Essential Foods brands that infect the local health food co-ops. It is the sort of salsa one might find in a Deadhead mess hall caravan, alongside whole wheat seitan pita pockets and hemp-carob spelt bars. It is so far removed from Mexican culinary discourse as to be frankly insulting, even to this Northern, pasty gringa reviewer.

If you find yourself in the University District of Seattle, WA, and are in need of a hot, tasty plate of nachos, do yourself a favor and pass by the Big Time. Wander, instead, toward the HUB, or just keep moving.

This review is dedicated to Monique, who has the cultural experience and vocabulary to have done a better job than I have in describing just how awful these nachos were.