Mexican Street Food

I’m an Ohio boy, and three years ago, I moved to Arizona to capture the western wind in my heart. I love the adventure of exploring the western spaces. After living in Miami, Florida for six years, I decided that big city life was not for me. I missed small town living. After a fair bit of moving around, I opted for Cottonwood, Arizona.

While exploring the town, I ran across a local Mexican market in the desert. I had cooked with Tamarind, and was delighted to find Tamarind soda, something I had never seen at larger grocery stores.

After getting my soda, I walked outside and smelled a delicious aroma. There was a man who was grilling, and it made my mouth water, so I went over to him and we talked about what he was cooking. We chatted about where he was from, namely Puebla, a suburb of Mexico City. I told him I was from Toledo, and he said, “Oh, you mean To-lay-do?” I laughed, because having been born in Toledo, I knew that Toledo, Spain, was a sister city to my hometown. In fact, Toledo Ohio’s newspaper is named, “The Blade,” because in an exchange, the Ohioans sent some hand-crafted glass, and the Spaniards sent a hand-crafted, jewel-encrusted sword.

The man’s food smelled so wonderful, that I simply had to buy some and try it. He made me a burrito with grilled meat, onions, peppers, and all the good stuff, and a thin, authentic salsa, unlike the bottled, chunky kind you get in a store.

I graciously accepted the burrito, paid him the very reasonable price (compared to what mainstream stores and restaurants charge, it was a bargain.) Naturally, I stuffed some money in his tip jar. I opened the tailgate of my truck and sat down to enjoy my food. I took one bite, and it was like nothing I had ever tasted. It had a rich, aromatic flavor that tantalized my taste buds. The grilled meat was perfect – crispy on the outside, yet still tender. The desert wind blew through my hair, and I enjoyed my meal with cacti scattered around the landscape.

I finished my burrito, licking my fingers to get every bit of the remaining juices. As I was sitting on my tailgate, a roadrunner darted across the dusty lot. What a treat, to have a delicious home-cooked meal and watch nature at work around me. I drank the last of my soda and chucked the bottle into the bed of my truck for recycling when I got home.

It was then that I noticed the food truck across the road. I made a mental note to try that place next. After all, I was new to the area, and was exploring the local food options.

About a week later, I went back to the area. The food truck was calling my name. I pulled up, happy to see that he was open for business.

He was selling ceviche, which is seafood cooked in lemon or lime juice, with onions, peppers, and spices. Many people think of ceviche as a rich person’s food, served in fancy glasses, but it was originally the fare of fishermen and dockworkers. It wasn’t until later that it became fashionable and a high dollar item. The ceviche I was looking at had some beautiful-looking shrimp, that made my mouth water just looking at it. I gladly paid the $5.00 he quoted and got a generous Styrofoam cup full of ceviche and a plastic fork, getting it the “real way.” If I had seen that quantity at Miami Beach, it would have cost $75.00, and it probably would have been halibut, which is okay, but nothing like I was about to dive into.

The first bite was just as I like it, as my mother used to prepare. It was firm and had a tartness from the citrus. I don’t care what the ritzy restaurants charge, they won’t match what my momma made, but this was a competitor.