Posted in Food

Camarones

The velvety air hung heavy on her bare shoulders, the stiffest of breezes begrudgingly caressing them on unseasonably warm evening.  Clouds hanging low, obscuring any natural light coming from Lady Luna. The night was one meant for passion. She could taste the lust on her lips, it was so palpable. Hunger drives her. Hunger for something soft and delicate, yet substantial enough fill her completely and satisfy the longing inside of her.

A small taco shop sits on the corner. Bright green letters against black shout its name to the entire block. It’s sandwich between one of those 24 hour breakfast places with mediocre coffee and amazing hash browns and one of the many strip clubs in the area, complete with worn out neon sign. She pulls up to the drive thru with confidence. Too often, she over thinks or is too timid to say exactly what she wants. Not tonight. The warm air on her skin has ignited something inside her and she knows exactly what she wants inside her tonight.

“Can I get one shrimp burrito and a small horchata, please?” She pulls up to the window, looking on in anticipation as the lady on the other side goes about her business. Gracefully, skillfully she grabs a small handful of napkins and places them in the bag before pivoting on her heel to catch my drink right before it starts to overflow. Static in the air creates a small spark of electricity between them as their hands softly touch each other for a brief moment. A shiver runs down her spine, but then at last the horchata is completely in her hands.

A first, small sip dances on her tongue, unleashing the sweet flavors of rice and cinnamon. Pulling the straw back from her slightly parted lips, she swallows in satisfaction, undeniably content with this particular moment in her life.  She takes one more delicious, sultry sip, and then forces herself to wait. Something about being denied makes the anticipation that much sweeter for her.

Glancing up, she sees her burrito making its way to her from the window. Carefully, she takes the bag and sets it on the seat next to her, eyeing her prize like a spider does a fly. “Let’s get somewhere a bit more cozy, huh?” Her hunger and desire grow stronger with every block she passes until she can’t stand it anymore. Pulling into the parking lot of a shady hotel, she pulls back a small corner of the wrapper and nibbles a small piece of fresh, warm tortilla. Her salivary glands jump into a frenzy as she relishes the first bite, and readies for the next one. Slowly, seductively, she pulls back a little more of the wrapper, the weight of her prize solid in her other hand. Her is mouth slightly parted with tongue peeking out, ready for another taste. Teasing herself, she laps up the overflowing salsa threatening to spill over onto her white tank top. Once again, she closes her eyes in simple satisfaction, letting the full flavor of the unique, creamy tomato salsa to permeate her tastebuds. With each bite, a wave of pleasure rides over her. The taste of the shrimp and rice on her tongue, dancing a dance of lovers and passion in the warm, velvety space.

A bittersweet moment, when she comes to that final bite. Swallowing the last sip of horchata, she takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh of contentment.

Posted in Food

So basic and yet, so wet, so delicious.

Hungover. So incredibly, terribly hungover. She let her basic side show last night, mixing watermelon vodka and Crystal Light lemonade. A far cry from the whiskey and craft beer she’s become accustomed to in recent months. And so, our heroine is dealing with the wake of nausea and misery left to her by her remarkable ability to be a basic white bitch.

A beautiful SoCal day can not be wasted on the poor decisions of the night before, however. Hangover be damned. Behooded, sweat pantsed, and day old make up caked on her face, looking more basic than ever, she drags herself out of the house and down the street to find something to soak up the awful inside of her. Looking as rough as she feels, grump and hungry, she crosses her arms over her chest and realizes she isn’t even wearing a bra. Basic bitch has turned to straight up hot mess. Rolling her eyes, she continues on, the bright San Diego sun and the noisy traffic compounding the hanger eating away at her.

It’s Southern California. She can’t throw a rock without hitting a Mexican place, so she stumbles into the first one that’s open. The middle aged Mexican man at the counter gives her a knowing smile; he’s seen her type before. She mumbles the little bit of Spanish she knows, “Uno momento, por favor. Gracias.” She’s pretty sure she could die right then and there. The guy just laughs at her and goes about whatever the fuck it was he was doing. “Fuck you laughing at?” she thinks completely irrationally. She knows it, too, and gives the guy who’s none the wiser an apologetic smile before finally diverting her full attention to the overwhelming menu up top.

“Too many goddamn fucking decisions. God fucking dammit. Why the hell do they have to have so many fucking options. Holy fucking hell.” she thinks to herself. Our heroine is kind of a bitch when she’s hungry. Slowly, under her breath, she reads the name of every single fucking burrito. “Fuck carne asada…you can go to hell pollo asada. Hmmm, Cali burrito? You are my one true love, but you fuck right hell off. Goddamn, I am so fucking hungry. Shit. Oh fuck, fish burrito? Hell yeah, fish fucking burrito.” She looks like a homeless person off her meds,  but finally she takes a step towards the counter and places an order for one fish burrito.

She sits down at a table, some telenovela or other brightly colored and overly dramatic is playing from the small television mounted above the Bible that is opened to the first chapter of the book of Proverbs. “Great, first I get judged at by the guy behind the counter and now the fucking literature is telling me what a goddamn fool I am.” Resting her head down, she hopes that either death, sleep, or her burrito will hurry the fuck up. She doesn’t care which. She’s not picky. Ten minutes seems like an eternity, but finally the burrito beats both death and sleep to get to her.

Greedily, she grabs her food from the counter and makes her way to a table in the corner, back to the rest of the world. Currently, she hates everyone and everything and wants them to be aware of it. They are not invited to her little corner of the world right now. Slouched in her chair, shoulders hunched, she picks it up. The weight and warmth of it in her hand cause her to sit up a little bit straighter. The hangover is still there with a vengeance, but somehow the anticipation of what’s in front of her dulls it just the slightest. Her mood lifts, just a little bit. She is throwing around fewer “fucks” in her head than previously. With what little physical energy she can muster, she pulls the hot, steaming burrito to her lips, parted in both desire and need.

First bite. Mostly just freshly heated tortilla, delicious regardless. Slowly, warmth makes it way down her throat, to her belly, and reaches all the way to her toes. She starts to tingle as the first hints of life start to awaken in her.

Second bite. The beautiful comings together of fresh lettuce and pico de gallo. A marriage so simple in design, and yet flavors so complex and sensual. She savors this bite a little longer, letting these beautifully basic ingredients linger an extra few seconds. She swallows and, against her will, lets out a little moan of pleasure. Startled by herself, she takes a quick look around, but no one is paying her any mind.

Third bite. The fish, so lightly, so perfectly battered, makes its grand appearance. She takes a lime and gently squeezes, not wanting to overpower the perfect taste of the delicate filling. Flaky and warm, the salty taste ocean, not to powerfully, invades her senses. She closes her eyes, no longer in exhaustion, but from the satisfaction of a sated hanger.

Her mood continues to lighten the further her mouth explores the depths of the hulking piece in her in hand. The salsa and crema, however perfectly rationed, slowly seep over the side. Playfully, she flicks her tongue up and down the side of the burrito, lapping up the creamy mixture, savoring it on her tongue, and swallowing it. She smiles to herself as she licks a stray drop from her finger, and finishes the rest of her meal.

She sits back in her chair for a few moments, the sun shining through the window seeming less harsh, the colors on the telenovela, less garish. The memory of the taste of her meal slowly fades, as she smiles in contentment. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the best burrito she’s ever eaten. However, in that moment, she had never thought anything had ever been so beautiful. With that thought in the back of her head, she clears her table, walks outsides, and heads home towards a desperately needed nap.