Ladies and gentlemen, the Cales like to eat. Hot or cold, on plates or in buckets, we’re no strangers to gastronomic indulgences that usually walk a fine line between savoring and swilling. Though no great shakes in the kitchen – the wife holds her own, but I’m helpless if it involves anything other than a microwave – we are among the world’s finest diners. Not in the sense that we have unparalleled palates, mind you, but that we achieve a satisfactory level of intoxication whenever we can be waited on and presented with any manner of food. In other words, if it’s to be eaten, it can and should be eaten out. Both of us have moved up the chain of taste in recent years, with risk and experimentation no longer off the radar, but we’re not so well-off that we can hang with cloth napkins exclusively. Fast food remains an unavoidable reality, even if we try to act like we have money to burn. And now, with Groupon, we’re even more inclined to expand into the great unknown of restaurant hopping, which leads us to our first brush with the Epitourean experience.
Lured by a half-price offer and the prospect of revisiting Santa Fe, New Mexico, now and forever one of our favorite American places, we decided to suspend our seemingly non-stop National Park habit for the time being and spend a long weekend with food. And with the prospect of Southwestern cuisine before us, who could resist? From the looks of our itinerary, Friday night would involve a cooking class, a charming prospect in many respects, but somewhat appalling at first blush due to our usual resistance to self-serve. So we’re paying for the privilege of creating what we eat? The lazily indulged part of us recoiled at first, but the need to move out of our comfort zones quickly won out. We simply didn’t do things like this, and it was about time we tried. So that first night, we waltzed over to Las Cosas Kitchen Shoppe & Cooking School, where we were greeted by a semi-large group of fellow cooks-in-training. At the center of the storm, however, stood Johnny Vee, a charismatic, endlessly sassy gentleman who knew we had no idea what we were doing, but threw us in the deep end nonetheless. We were going to have a fajita party, and there might be a few casualties.
After a quick meet-and-greet and recipe review, we moved on to the tasks at hand. There were quite a few, some more difficult than others, and by no means did we want to be on the hook for the evening’s enjoyment. Make guacamole? Visions of vomiting tourists flashed in our minds, and we scanned the list for even easier jobs. Homemade tortillas? Not in this life, and not even the next one as a reincarnated Mexican. Preparing fish? Still too much. A dessert of ice cream tacos? Well, perhaps, but that sweat on my brow tells me that’s also a non-starter. Okay, so we settled on salsa and tenderizing chicken, with a brief visit into chopping onions and peppers. Finding a sense of belonging at last in the culinary equivalent of the short bus, we sliced and diced, poured and pounded. And if I shattered a bowl into a million pieces, damn near severing the arteries of everyone in the vicinity of the sink, what of it? The mess was swept up by Johnny’s helper with such rapidity that I’m not entirely sure it ever happened. Covering our tracks and keeping our backs to the rest of the group, we were able to fool them all into thinking we had the professional’s touch, rather than simply deferring to guesswork.
In all, the party was a hit, and somehow, against the odds, my chicken turned out to be the best of the meat selections (a happy accident, I assure you), and Brooke's salsa nearly sent three ladies to the hospital due to the heat. And while the beef was a bit tough, and the tortillas not exactly what I’m used to, the pork (with a distinct orange flavor) was fantastic, and several of the dips indistinguishable from restaurant grade. No one died, no one ran embarrassingly to the toilet, and smiles and good cheer won out over quiet judgment. Given our standard anti-social line, spending three hours with a group of upbeat adults didn’t sound like something worth paying for, but at its conclusion, we had nothing but compliments for the evening. Vee certainly helped, but by and large, the company we kept was unexpectedly pleasant. And if you can walk away with a reasonably priced meat tenderizer, what else can be said?
Plenty, it turns out, as we had that glorious room to help melt away our bloated bellies. Not exactly a room, per se, but an entire condo; a 2-bedroom, 2-bath paradise that made us wish we owned it outright and could leave the world behind. Located atop Artist Drive in a complex called the Fort Marcy Hotel Suites, our private little heaven made us realize that while bed and breakfasts are too creepy by half, our usual Holiday Inn Expresses don’t exactly cry out with luxury. Here, at Fort Marcy, a noise-free isolation helped remind us that at no point would a clueless member of the housekeeping team come barging in with more towels. This was ours, and we could let the evening fade knowing that I’d have my own room and an atypical freedom from the punches and kicks that followed my usual snoring fests. We’d both sleep like babies, and our scrub downs would be in stall beauties, rather than the usual dirty tub/shower combos. And while the décor was perfectly aligned to our tastes, the one negative was the television set. For such extravagance, it seemed odd to have such a small, unimpressive cheapie, when only high-definition would do. Everything else was in its place, however, including a stellar A/C unit that could have cooled a kingdom, least of all a cozy condo.
Rested and relaxed, we woke up on Saturday morning with a walking tour of downtown Santa Fe before us. And with food stops included, who could complain? Well, we could, it turns out, as someone forgot to inform the tour that Brooke had gluten issues. No matter, as our tour guide righted the ship, even if there was nothing to substitute for the last stop’s pizza. Meeting first at the plaza, we were treated to a panhandler in handcuffs – Santa Fe doesn’t mess around with the tourist trade – as well as a memorial to the “brave souls” who murdered hundreds of Indians so long ago. At least they scrubbed “savage” from the marble. Gathered together at last (one couple from the night before didn’t show, leading us to believe that perhaps we had poisoned someone after all), we heard the standard spiel about Santa Fe itself, and quickly strolled to the San Francisco Street Bar & Grill for a sesame chicken salad. It was a nice light start to an afternoon of gulping, but perhaps too light. A few bites later, it was gone. Brooke was given a cup of soup as a substitute, and it seemed she got the better deal. While the restaurant was “introduced” in a sense, it would have been nice to check out the kitchen, though we understand the time limitations. At least one of the sexy hostesses could have kissed me on the way out.
Next up, The Ore House (where we would dine later that evening, paying over $50 for some chips and a shrimp or two – overpriced, but tasty) where we were treated to a truly unique establishment (two floors of open, light-filled dining) and Florinda’s Posole, a spicy little number that has the decency to have been passed down from the chef’s grandmother. Jammed with pork and cilantro, it was the day’s highlight, with its inspired use of chiles a stomach-first window into the heart of New Mexico. Just around the corner was our next stop, an odd choice indeed: Santa Fe Olive Oil. Sure, it was our opportunity to sample real olive oil, rather than the cheap, bastardized version you’ll find in your average Safeway, but who knew it would damn near bring me to my knees in gut-churning disgust? I’ll say it, man – pure olive oil, even in small doses, without any accompanying bread or substance, is akin to kissing a toilet seat. I hated the experience, but was saved somewhat by the sample table of balsamic vinegars, which ran from coffee-flavored to any number of fruits. Those, I could drink. Raw olive oil, not so much. Sure, the good stuff might extend your life, but at what cost? Hell, I’d be spending most of my extra years on the shitter.
After reaping what the Corleone crime family hath wrought, we checked in with San Q Japanese Pub. An odd choice, it would seem, given the decided lack of Asian influence in the area, but this little number offered a Hatch green chile tempura roll that genuinely surprised me. The Japanese setting, complete with low tables where someone like me is bound to pull something vital, helped foster an instinctive mouth-watering, but upon learning that the sushi dish would be, well, fish-free, I was outraged to the point of needing to charge the tour guide like an angry bull. Using some discretion, however, I stayed put, and my initial close-mindedness was met by a tasty treat bursting with flavor. It seems one can do sushi right in the Land of Enchantment. Never knowing this place existed, even after a half-dozen visits to the area, we were now armed with a go-to joint for our raw fish obsessions. And me, the rarely ventured, nothing ever gained type, ate something that would have normally sent me packing. Something about having no options and a growling belly, perhaps.
As we made our final swing near the state capitol (uniquely designed, as is the entire town), we came upon Upper Crust Pizza and the Sunny Chicken Pesto offering. As stated, Brooke had to take a pass here, and I wish I had. Called “Santa Fe’s best slice of pizza,” it was, frankly, nothing of the kind. Perhaps it was just this variety, but I was unimpressed at best. Something tells me our pies were made hours before and left under a heat lamp as “tour offerings”, so maybe this first visit shouldn’t be the last. Still, if future customers are your goal, perhaps you shouldn’t send in the second unit. As if to counter the forgettable pizza, it was here where we met a fellow traveler – a Michigan native now residing in Dallas – who shared our passion for the parks. Here she was, relatively young (younger than us, at least), traveling by herself and seeing the country. At the very least, it was inspiring to meet a person with an NPS fixation who isn’t one step from the grave. There are so few of us, you know.
So we chatted and as we neared our final stop, Senor Murphy’s Candymaker, we passed by the world famous Loretto Chapel, where Jesus himself (or St. Joseph) is rumored to have built a “miraculous” spiral staircase in the late 19th century. Why Christ would wander into a U.S. territory to make life a little easier on the knees of virginal nuns is beyond me, what with the rampant disease, violence, and bigotry of the era, but we are talking about a religion whereby one feasts on a Triscuit to “ingest” the soul of a zombie savior, after all. And they called the native people savages. That aside, we wrapped up the walk with a little toffee sampling, which was more than enough to make me forgive the pizza.
As a side dish, our Santa Fe culinary extravaganza was just what we needed to remind our fevered brains that yes, a vacation is possible without 500-mile days and stamp-filled visitor centers. We ate, walked, talked, and took in a brilliant blue sky, all without buying a single magnet or checking a dog-eared unigrid. Sure, we’re still hooked and ready for more stamps, but how pleasant indeed to stay put; feet up, belts loosened, with the beauty of America’s oldest state capital unfurled before us like a ribbon of ecstasy. We can do this, and with so many NPS sites now out of reach for short trips, we’d better get used to the feeling. Funny thing about obsessions – they’re always there, right where you left them, happy to see your crazed expression once again.
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