A Moment

A while ago, I had some business in Seattle, The Big City of my region. I took the opportunity to hit the famed Pike Place Market, with its shouting fish mongers flinging huge sea creatures around, its ever-shifting make-up of shops and that place with the really great donuts I can never get because they're cash-only.

But the real gem of Seattle, in my view is down below the market. Down from the street level, down below the three-level Down Under, home of the magic shop, comic shop, head shop (ask your parents) and the museum dedicated to the shoe of the World's Tallest Man, which is literally a hole in the wall.

Down the outdoor stairwell where you can always find a street musician of some sort because the acoustics are better than half the concert halls in town. Cross the street and down more stairs, you come to a small balcony.

And on that small balcony is the door to El Puerco Lloron. The Crying Pig.

My parents came to the Puget Sound area from Los Angeles, and lamented for many years about not being able to find genuine Mexican food. Then they found this place.

And it was good.

More than good.

It's only barely more than the hole in the wall that houses the giant shoe, but that is it's charm. The chairs are metal folding chairs, the tables are a mish-mash of mismatched wooden kitchen tables and tin folding tables embossed with the logos of Mexican beers.

I approach with reverence, and gaze at the hand-written menu on the wall. I briefly consider the special, a Chicken Mole (I've been looking for a Chicken Mole), but ultimately choose the same thing I get every time I'm there.

Taquitos Machacas. Small Shredded Beef Tacos.

The #1. And with good reason.

Hey, my food's done already. No fast food is this fast and on a real plate by a real cook, not some high school register jockey in a paper hat. Accompanied by a Mexican Coke (made with sugar cane not refined sugar, Mexican Coke is less cloyingly sweet and more savoury than it's pussed-out American variant).

I sit in a corner for privacy.

I spoon some rice and some beans onto the first taquito, gently raise it up (maintaining an even keel to ensure that none of the broth is lost out the back end) and take a bite.

And it happens.

I have A Moment.

A Moment of gourmet bliss. A Moment of foodie zen. A foodgasm.

One of Those Moments that reminds us that food need not be mere fuel shoveled into the face. A Moment that reminds you that our senses are what connect us to the world around us. Our senses connect us to the world around us. To the people around us.

Food is an expression of the person making it.

When Southerners talk about putting love into food, this is what they mean.

Even if the woman behind the counter spoke English (which I can't vouch for because she only ever speaks Spanish), and stood by my side and walked my step-by-step through the process, I couldn't recreate this.

This food is like a Frenchman's Crepe, or the Texan's Dry Rub. It is in-built. Hard-wired. In the bone.

But I don't need to know how it is made. I know where to get it.