If you've read The People's Guide To Mexico you almost certainly recall our dear departed compadre Steve Rogers. I think about Steve often, but especially at breakfast, which may well have been his favorite meal (followed closely, of course, by lunch, supper and one or two late-night snacks).
Some years ago Steve and I were on our way to Guatemala, following the narrow, much abused highway south from Cuernavaca. We could've taken a far better tollway from Puebla to Oaxaca, but we were both in a kind of lazy, nostalgic frame of mind and simply for old time's sake we'd opted for the old route, potholes, speed bumps and all.
On this particular day we'd been on the road since before dawn, having spent Saturday night in a particularly grim starvation budget hotel on the outskirts of Cuautla. Over the years Steve and I had shared many such rooms, along with many laughs about cement bag pillows and swaybacked beds. Eventually, however, the humor wears as thin as the sheets in these places. Steve dubbed this unusually moist and dingy room the "Graham Greene suite" and correctly predicted that we would face a restless night and an early departure.
There isn't a lot happening in Cuautla, especially before sunup on Sunday morning. To our great disappointment the only people stirring were a few pious Catholics, none of whom seemed inclined to serve us breakfast. As a result, we had no choice but to hit the road again on empty stomachs, without our daily blessing of chorizo and caffeine.
As we grumbled out of Cuautla, it only added to my frustration that Steve's van was equipped with a fully operational camp kitchen, including a small espresso pot and a four burner propane stove, conveniently mounted behind the passenger seat. In fact, Steve was a Grand Master of on-the-road cooking and regularly performed culinary feats that would make Emeril and his buddies on the Food Network turn green with envy. Among other notable accomplishments, Steve is probably the only person to have fried, plated and served a hamburger to a hungry passenger while driving northbound from Mexico City to Chihuahua. He was showing off for all he was worth, of course, but when Steve reached out and flipped that sizzling burger at 60 mph and then slipped it onto a toasted and generously buttered bun you had to be impressed.
I mention this not to expand Steve's already considerable legend but to explain why we found ourselves driving on from Cuautla that morning, hour after grumpy hour, half dead with hunger, snarling at each other like a couple of a rabid coyotes. Although Steve could have easily whipped up something tasty in 15 minutes or less, this would have seriously violated his personal road tripping philosophy, which said that while driving in Mexico the morning was not complete until he'd enjoyed a traditional sitdown breakfast. In other words, in order to fill our stomachs and restore balance to the universe, we simply had to find a restaurant.
Those of you who have driven Mex 180 north of Oaxaca may recall that restaurants are very few and very, very far between. In the middle of a particularly desolate stretch of country, Steve suddenly began pounding the heels of his hands on the steering wheel and crying desperately, "I have... got... to have... something to eat! Or else... or..." Rendered speechless by hunger, he turned and gave me the kind of angry, self-piteous look one normally associates with children being exiled to their bedrooms. Before I could respond, however, and offer soothing visions of huevos rancheros and pan dulce, Steve's face unexpectedly brightened. "Yes!" He exulted, pointing to a rickety structure of poles and dusty palm fronds that leaned precariously close to the highway. As we skidded to a stop, I saw a crudely lettered sign, "comedor", hanging from one of the poles.
"I don't know about this one, Steve." I cautioned. The so-called "diner" not only looked marginal, it threatened to give new meaning to the term "bottom feeding". The only furniture beneath the sagging palm frond ramada was a pair of oilcloth covered wooden tables and several homemade wooden stools. I saw a battered ice chest and a fly spattered display box of stale pastries. Other than that the place was empty, with no stove, cook or anyone to serve us. There was a very rundown house a stone's throw away but with the exception of the flies clustered on the tables and a few ragged chickens scratching in the dirt, no visible signs of life . On my personal restaurant hygiene scale, which ranges from a sanitary and quite healthy "Zero Pepto-Bismol" to a stomach churning "Five Pepto-Bismol", I didn't hesitate to rate this dump a deadly 5, with an IV drip thrown in for good measure. "Oh, man." I groaned. "I know you're hungry, but don't you think this may be just a little bit too... uuh... folkloric?"
I could have saved my breath. Steve had already pulled up a stool. With his elbows braced on the table he was staring intently at the house, focusing all of his psychic food powers on whoever was hidden within. .
Moments later the door of the house opened and a small slender girl approached us slowly across the barren yard. She was all of 12 or 13 years old, barefoot, with very Indian features. We didn't need to ask if she'd ever served two hairy, heavily bearded gringos before; there was obvious fear in her eyes and a visible tension in her posture. She stood before us on skinny little legs, poised for flight, like an arrow in a tightly drawn bow.
Realizing that our breakfast hung in the balance, Steve offered the child his most benign Santa Claus smile. "Is there food?" He cooed soothingly. The girl glanced nervously toward the house but remained mute. Her mother was undoubtedly inside, watching us through a crack in the wall, perhaps stuffing a cap and ball into the family musket and preparing the last line of defense. "Food?" Steve insisted gently. Ducking her head shyly to avoid our eyes, the girl whispered the magic word: "Sí."
Steve's smile broadened voraciously. The first all-important hurdle had been passed. The next question would decide our fate. "¿Qué hay?" He continued carefully. "What is there?" She gave another reassuring peek at the house, and another timid answer: "Eggs."
Steve rubbed his hands together; now we were cooking with gas! Continuing step-by-patient-step, one simple query after another, he gradually encouraged the girl to recite the comedor's entire menu.
Eggs.
Beans.
Tortillas.
"I don't know," I interrupted. "I'm kind of torn between having eggs, beans, and tortillas or maybe I'll go with the beans, tortillas, and eggs." Steve's eyes telegraphed a brief but very clear message: "screw this up and you walk to Guatemala!" Waving me to silence, he cranked his smile up to luminous and turned his attention back to the girl.
"Is there coffee?"
"Only de olla", she replied apologetically. Steve's eyes lit up. Café de olla is the traditional, heavily sweetened "pot coffee" we so badly craved.
After placing our order I speculated that in such a rustic establishment our food would be probably be prepared the old-fashioned way, in artery-clogging manteca, pork lard, instead of with healthy, refined vegetable oil.
"All we can do is hope." Steve replied tersely.
Fifteen minutes later our diminutive waitress emerged from the house bearing heaping plates of huevos a la mexicana and bowls of frijoles de olla, followed closely by steaming cafe de olla in thick pottery mugs. Although we did not formally bow our heads and offer thanks to a Higher Power, there is no doubt that in the presence of such bounty our mood was appropriately grateful and reverential. The final blessing, the crowning touch to what is probably the best breakfast I've ever experienced in Mexico, was a constantly replenished stack of golden tortillas. Handmade from home-grown corn, these tortillas were the very essence and soul of Mexico, thick and chewy, toasted to perfection over a wood fire. They were so good that we begged for an additional dozen to go.
Later that evening, camped in the shadow of an abandoned monastery, we fought over the last of those wonderful tortillas, biting and snapping like dogs. Had I known that this would be our last trip together, I probably would have yielded that last tortilla to Steve a bit more gracefully. Then again....
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The quick and easy Mexican breakfast I'm about to describe doesn't measure up to Steve's highest standards, but I have no doubt that he would eat it with considerable pleasure. It is the kind of meal Lorena and I often prepare when we're on the road or hunkered down in our cabin, very busy with some writing project. This breakfast is also easy to clean up after, quite filling, nutritionally balanced, and cheap. What more can you ask for? Chorizo?
You don't really need a recipe for this so I'll just describe the ingredients and how we put them together.
A can of refried beans.
Eggs, however many you can eat.
Chipotle hot sauce.
Tostadas
We'll start with the refried beans. Our hands down favorite is La Sierra, probably the only Mexican brand that is both vegetarian and delicious. In fact, La Sierra offers several types of canned beans, all of them excellent. If you can't find La Sierra, use whatever you've got -- and if you have to, whole canned beans are fine, too.
Talking about beans reminds me of a great trick I learned from my friend Geronimo, a very savvy Mexican mountain man and cowboy. Geronimo and I were camped deep in the Sierra Madre, exploring for ancient cave dwellings. At breakfast one morning he pulled a can of refried beans from one of our burro packs. You know how hard it is to get all of the refried beans out of the can, especially when you don't have a rubber spatula? Well, Geronimo whipped out his dagger and sawed the top off the can, then turned the can over and deftly punctured a small hole in the bottom, right in the center. (Don't try this with a factory made knife. You'll probably break the tip of the knife and/or lose a thumb.)
Once the top was off, Geronimo raised the can to his lips, covered the puncture in the bottom with his mouth, puffed once, and blew the entire contents into a waiting skillet, slick as a whistle.
Not being a mountain man myself, I remove the top of the can with a can opener and carefully puncture the bottom with an ice pick. Then I puff. Works just fine.
OK, it's time for the salsa, eggs, and a stack of tostadas.
In our opinion, one of the most hopeful developments in the past several years is the public's growing appreciation of chipotle peppers. Not long ago, chipotles were difficult to find in Mexico except whole, usually in small cans. Once the chipotle was discovered by gringos, however, it soon gained a much wider following in its native country. Today, you can find a wonderful variety of chipotle sauc
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