Cantina Los Caballitos' Roast Pork Empanadas

The question before this last little adventure was; is there something Mexican and pork-xican that will make me love it more than I love Puebla's el pastor? Not bloody likely. But I'll be damned if I won't give it a chance.

As I've long maintained, Mexican is not my favorite style of food, pork or not. What most concerned me about the early Mexican pork dishes I tried was the lack of seasoning to cover up that porky essence that stops me mid-bite on occasion. The plantains packed into the roast pork burrito I had at Pico de Gallo a little while back didn't do enough to mask this flavor, in hindsight.

Believe me, I've considered what an asshole I am for seeking out foods that cover up the taste of roast pork. I know that by doing so, I'm shadowing the reality of the roast pork I consume, and I might as well not pursue such dishes if they keep making me fell sick. But despite my desire to make the Adventures easy on myself in this way, forging forward is the only choice. I can't very well avoid a whole category. This blog is about eating pork from the perspective of a Muslim, and this is how this particular Muslim chooses to deal with roast pork...I know, I know, if that last sentence made you feel angry/confused/sad/fearful, please, just write your thoughts in the comments section.

I was just getting back into town from yet another multi-hour stint in my less-than-tidy car, and I hit up Sunny Ali, who happened to be sitting outside Cantina Los Caballitos about to order some grub. As I arrived to join him, the sun was suddenly obscured by half-menacing clouds. The wind started to pick up as I approached the table as if we were about to have a shootout, or at least words leading to one. Whatever the weather suggested fizzled out as I sat down across from him and heartily greeted my partner in crime. Just then, Sunny's girlfriend Cait, a waitress at this Cantina, brought us a couple of beers. Perfect way to end a shitty drive on the NJ turnpike.

Initially, I didn't feel like experimenting. I just wanted something familiar that would go down easy, the quesadillas I ordered being almost too deep in that category. The pork empanadas were actually Sunny's choice, but the configuration of our plates demanded that we make a partial trade. The picture would have been perfect if that bastard hadn't gotten salsa all in the sour cream.

Because I'm used to empanadas being either the frozen snack or of the corner store variety (which I am suspicious might be the same thing), having a hand crafted one with the shell cooked just right was a treat. The filling was decent at best, not much by way of standout seasoning. The unwelcoming essence of roast pork was at about 40%, especially with a dallop of sour cream. The pork was a little stringier than normal, either the cooking method or the pig being at fault. Overall, the bite match my mood: a little tired and craving a change.

I like both Cantina's in Philly for their atmosphere and layout, not to mention the Tecate and Tequila drink special that pleasantly ruined a few summer days last year, but there food has always left something to be desired. There's something un-Mexican about preparations that I can't quite put my finger on. In a town that has a serious Mexican diaspora and plenty of eateries serving its need for authentic food from home, it seems unnecessary to travel to a hip block for dishes that come off as a very slight attempt to differentiate. Don't be surprised if you see me chilling at Cantina on a hot summer day drinking a Pacifico, but if I ever feel the hankering for something south of the border, you'll find me on 9th St.

Peublas' Tacos Al Pastor

I never ignore legal advice. My attorneys told me ages ago to try the Al Pastor from Pueblas. Yesterday, in an attempt to feed my newly found chorizo taco addiction, I made a call to my new favorite taco joint only to find out that they were out of the delicious, spicy sausage dish that made me fall in love. In an instant I saw this as the opportunity to fulfill an earlier mission and ordered the Al Pastor. I jumped in the whip and cruised up there with anticipation.

The preparation of Al Pastor has an interesting history. Cooking meat on a rotating spit is not originally a Mexican method. Lebanese immigrants brought the idea, adapted from the Turkish doner kabab, in the early 20th century. Upon its integration into Mexican cuisine, what was once lamb became pork. The name 'Al Pastor', or 'shepherd style' stuck despite the fundamental change in meats. The result is tacos (or little kabab wraps) filled with pork sliced straight from the rotating spit and topped with onions, cilantro, and pineapple, presented with two kinds of salsa, sliced cucumbers, and hot pickled onions and peppers.

Right off the bat, the meat looked interesting. The pinkness in the center of each slice and the reddish roasted exterior were unmistakable signs of pork, but the way it had been grilled and sliced could have allowed it to pass for beef. Biting into it revealed a flavor far less cured than the chorizo, but with a more engaging meat flavor than any cured sausage could accomplish. Perhaps it was due to the texture, but it reminded me more of doner kabab than pork. A healthy dose of salsa verde gave the tacos a subtle heat, and the pineapple drove the whole concept home. Whoever decided to add a little fruit surprise to this meat dish is a damn genius, and I tip my sombrero to him or her.

Tacos Al Pastor are definitely on my list. The good list, not the bad one.

"Dude, is Pueblas paying you or some shit?!"

No, honest. I pay for my tacos just like everybody else. In fact, I don't think the waitress I'm slowly falling in love with even realizes that I'm writing about the tacos she keeps giving me. The language barrier would cause an attempted explanation of my blog to end in an awkwardly polite exchange of laughter as I back out the door and she backs into the kitchen.

As Catwoman once said, let's keep the mystery.

Los Taquitos de Puebla's Chorizo Tacos

When I was growing up in Thailand, my mom had to struggle to get us packaged American food. Though I was rather unfamiliar, having left the US shortly after my birth, my brother had all the unhealthy hankerings of an American kid. Because of its scarcity, our encounters with such items became a welcome treat, and my mom found herself making more trips to the incredibly overpriced supermarket for expatriates on Sukhumvit.

The items she trekked into the city for were as basic as bread and milk (neither of which were an integral part of the Thai diet at the time), and as novel as canned peaches, apple juice, and Oreos. In her quest to inspire an appetite in her two skinny, gangly sons, she brought home something she had loved in the US: Tacos. We treated that family pack of Old El Paso taco fixings like a regular trip to Pizza Hut (in Thailand, Pizza Hut is an actual restaurant and not simply a purveyor of circular garbage like it is in the US). Of course, the good folks at Old El Paso led us to believe that hard shell tacos were authentically Mexican. It wasn't until I came to the US, and even then not until I ventured past Taco Bell, that I discovered what a real Mexican taco was like...and I was disappointed.

Something about the authentic soft shell taco didn't give me the same satisfaction as the build-your-own hard shell experience my mom had created for us. As I experienced more and more authentic Mexican food, I found that it used some of the same spices found in Thai cuisine (cilantro, hot peppers, etc) but in far less appealing series of homogeneous preparations. Never did the suggestion of Mexican food meet an exuberantly positive reaction from my taste.

When I discovered the wonders of Philly's Italian Market years later, I found that there was a growing presence (albeit not a welcome one in the perspective of the entrenched Italians) of Mexican establishments. It was the first time I'd seen a Mexican diaspora with a concentration of restaurants, and I damned my previous notions regarding the cuisine and started anew.

La Lupe was my early favorite, although inconsistency in food quality (particularly the sometimes perfectly mushy and sometimes impossibly dry plantains), increasingly shitty service and price increases on the menu led me to abandon this standby for Veracruzana just up the street. Gradually, I found myself tiring once again of the various forms of tortilla-meat-beans.

It was a small squad of unusually boisterous attorneys that urged me to venture into the wonders of Mexican pork at a newer joint on 9th street called Pueblas, or 'Black Awning Joint' for ease of reference. My old friends (and likely my future legal council) Tony, Niev, and Jon noted that my blog was lacking in the true Mexican dish of chorizo tacos. On a beautiful day in South Philadelphia, I set out to fill the void.

I walked into an empty Pueblas and ordered from a menu filled with animal parts. I ordered the chorizo tacos with a side order of scallions. Waiting in the tiny orange table area, I perused the photography on the walls, pictures from Mexico and of Mexicans in Philadelphia, dressed in indigenous garb, celebrating, parading, cooking in kitchens, sitting on stoops, gathering, laughing, and before I got to the end of the series, my food was ready. To my order, I added two little glass bottles of Coke (unfortunately the American variety sweetened with high fructose corn syrup and not sugar). With the spoils of my journey in hand, I scampered home.

The tacos were very basic, the diced and cooked chorizo laid out on top of three overlapping taco tortillas with a single fried scallion to top it off. My side order revealed a dozen more of these green onions. I squeezed the limes provided over everything and began. The first bite revealed a texture not unlike ground beef, but far chewier and more pleasing. The slightly rubbery portions of the chopped sausage mingled with a purely meaty texture to completely eclipse the tortilla, which was simply a vessel for the filling. The combination between the inherent saltiness of the sausage, the added peppery hotness and the tartness of lime completely zapped any potentially off-putting pork flavors. Once again, dry sausage made it happen. Chorizo beat the crap out of most beef tacos I've had (although I'm still partial to beef tongue tacos).

As I ate, I periodically bit into a scallion. It's preparation left it crunchy in all its layers, making it one of the most pleasing cooked vegetables I've had the pleasure of biting into. My teeth cutting through each layer as I bit down and the explosion of sour-salty flavor that followed is a sensation that could, on its own, bring me back to Pueblas on a regular basis.

I was finally satisfied to have tried some real Mexican, and this category of food has risen out of obscurity in my mind. I'm excited about the prospect of all the great Latin American traditions of pork. I'll have to trek out to the Barrio soon.

Pico de Gallo's Sweet Plantain, Roasted Pork, and Black Bean Burrito

Again with the snow. Boots take forever to put on, and dry winter weather is summer compared to the burning, frost-embedded air after a storm. I took the now familiar trek to Joey's, finally with some sidewalk to cruise. Even after consecutive hard lessons, Philly didn't take the hint. The city's south, in it's inherent lawlessness, was left to fend for itself.

Joey, Hassan, and I made our way to Pico de Gallo at 15th and South. Mexican has never been my first choice, which is perhaps why none of its pork incarnations have yet found their way into my stomach, my heart and subsequently onto this blog. At this tiny little place, run by a gentleman who appeared suspiciously non-Mexican, there was something unusual on the menu: a roast pork, black bean, and sweet plantain burrito.

I love sweet plantains. I once frequented La Lupe for this favorite, but that eatery's nosedive in quality and service over the past year or two cast me into the other Mexican joints of 9th street, surprisingly lacking in plantains.


The order arrived, its contents concealed by soft, delicate tortilla which nearly resembled the texture of Japanese buns (which I enjoyed thoroughly in my travels there). I cleaved the capsule open, spilling out stringy, shredded chunks of stewy roast pork, a black froth of beans, and a few quartered plantains. The first bite, all the elements included, was a near perfect balance of sweet, salty, and bland; mushy, chewy, and down right gruel. Taking more bites progressively deconstructed the burrito, resulting in a thick soup of ingredients. The meal was consumed far faster than it was prepared.

Again, I fooled myself into believing that roast pork was goat. It was facilitated by the appeal of dinner with dessert inserted directly into it. While it delivered on the promise of its menu description, little about it truly wowed me to the point of shifting Mexican to the head of my crave list.