The nachos that almost cost me my freedom

More than ever, this pandemic has ingrained within me the need to regularly take stock of the wonderful opportunities that have been afforded to me throughout my life. As a student almost fifteen years ago, a gap year opened up a door that I’ve never quite managed to close for good. In fact, this gap year decided for me that I’d devote my life to travelling and give up my university place and career in law.

Although in the end, I settled not too far from where I began, in a South-East London suburb, my early encounters exploring the well-worn streets of Los Angeles, and remote parts of South East Asia have stayed with me, and have formed a strong part of who I am today. Being anchored in suburbia for the past 15 months has left me with the creative challenge of not forgoing my passion for travel, and innovatively finding ways to explore cultures from my living room. From fragrant breakfast congees to Shakshuka brunches and wholesome Kimchi Bokkeumbaps for dinner, my kitchen has been on a round-the-world trip in the absence of actual travel. But there will always be one dish that reminds me of that first meal I had during my travels: nachos.

I’ll set the scene. I grew up in a very loving, close-knit family. When my eighteen-year-old self told my parents that I’d be spending the next year abroad travelling solo they were both excited for me, and completely horrified. With, I’m sure, some pressure from my beloved mother, my father booked himself a seat on the first leg of my journey to Los Angeles. I didn’t want to admit it at the time of course, but relief flooded through me knowing that I’d be able to navigate America with a person whose sense of direction put mine to shame (and who was old enough to rent a car). Ironically, both of these things almost got us thrown into a Mexican jail. In short, the hire car was insured for the USA. My father accidentally drove us to Tijuana, missing the last exit. And whilst I prided myself on my ability to speak basic French, German and a few random Romanian phrases, neither of us could speak or read any Spanish. Guess what language the road signs were in on the other side of the border? This inability led us to use the commuter lane illegally to try to get back to American territory, and a lengthy scolding from the Mexican border police who were less than entertained by our anecdotal tale of driving into their country with no car documents and unknowingly abusing their fast-track lane. But the story has a happy ending: we were allowed back into the USA, un-arrested, and found the park-and-ride to get back into Tijuana (legally). It’s there that I had my first meal since the plane journey the night before, and my first taste of Mexican nachos, which didn’t disappoint.

Nachos for me are a taste of nostalgia, and they’re not a meal. Not really. That is kind of what adds to their specialness, and as an unconventional meal, reinforces the totally unconventional way I first encountered them. The sources all seem to agree that the dish came about in 1940s Mexico in a small town called Piedras Negras when a group of American Military wives visited a closed restaurant and the improvising chef whipped them up a batch of tortillas with cheese and jalapenos. God bless that beautiful chef for bringing this dish into our lives. The humble nacho has since evolved; my particular favourite is using a bag of cool-flavoured chips and baking them in the oven with grated English cheddar cheese (sorry to my American friends who may deem this sacrilege) and a generous handful of jalapenos, then adding homemade guacamole, sour cream and salsa afterwards. I know there’s more interesting versions out there, but I’m loyal to my basic 6-piece concoction (well, other than the cheese which I stand firm on) in honour of the first plate of nachos I ever had, and the fond memory of the time my father accidentally smuggled us both across the border.