06.21.06
Que Pasa Con La Rasa
I’m totally down with Mexicans. I always have been, even before it was a hot button issue. My best friend in third grade was Gustavo Gonzales. And my best friend in fourth grade was Felipe Gonzales (no relation).
When I worked at Murray’s Cheese Shop, I didn’t get along with every other cheesemonger, but I made fast friends with all of the Mexicans. I’d try to speak with them as much as possible to pick up the slang. And I talked so much baseball with them in my broken Spanish that they stopped calling me “Mr. David” and bestowed the honorary nickname of “Mr. David Ortiz” upon me.
I think because I was openly friendly with the Mexicans, I was treated like one of them by the management, and I eventually left because I felt I wasn’t respected there. But before I went, I tried to organize a union as we stood around the lockers nightly.
I thought my efforts were going unappreciated (probably because they couldn’t understand my Spanish) until one day while I was stocking a cracker shelf. Cristo, one of my closest friends at Murray’s, saddled up next to me and pretended to front some items so as not to draw the ire of the watchful and vengeful manager. Cristo, who is from Puebla, shot me a sideways glance and whispered, “Hijos del maize (children of the corn). . . Viva la revolucion.” I smiled at him and nodded vigorously. As he walked off with his arms full of Pecorino Romano he barked, “VIVA EL CHE!!!”
(Mi amigo Carlos who taught me to say “Que Pasa Con La Rasa” posing proudly with some cheese)
My heart was swollen with proletarian pride. After that, even the quiet Mexican from Chiapas would smile at me every time he passed, sometimes raising a fist, and occasionally murmuring, “Viva Commandante Marcos.” Even with all the revolutionary sentiment I’d stirred up, I didn’t manage to organize a union, though one surely was needed.
Oddly, I’ve never met a Mexican yellow cab driver (another group of immigrants who would do well to form a union). I’ve met immigrants from pretty much every other country on earth who drive yellow cabs. And I’m sure there are Mexican cabbies. There must be. I’ve just never met one.
The result is that I have no reliable source for Mexican food recommendations in New York City (Murray’s Mexicans all ate at home). I’ve asked my Mexican fares, but I’ve never found a Mexican restaurant with tacos or burritos that compares to what I’ve eaten in California . . . until yesterday.
My friend Mark (not a Mexican, but he is fluent in Spanish after living in Argentina for a few months) urged me to visit a place near his Clinton Hill apartment called Castro’s. Mark, a very talented musician who just finished a great album all about apples, knows his burritos. He swears by Castro’s, and now I do too.
The burritos at Castro’s are gigantic. They are probably larger than the ones I found in the Mission District (unless my memory has faded), and certainly larger than the ones I found in East L.A. and San Diego. The innards are full of fresh veggies, fluffy rice, wet black beans, and succulent meat. They serve a generous portion of guacamole, salsa, and spicy green sauce on the side so that each bite can be custom flavored.
The highlight of the Castro’s burrito is the tortilla. They do a sort of toasting of the entire burrito once it is contructed. The burritos are placed onto a tray, lifted upwards, and pressed against the roof of the oven. A small brown spot appears on the top of each burrito where it touched the metal, and the texture of the tortilla comes out varied from crispy to chewy depending on how close it was the roof or the tray. Every bite is a unique taste sensation.
(One of the burrito’s broke apart before it was half eaten, but Mark claims that this was a first)
I’m not saying Castro’s burrito is the same as an authentic California burrito. I’m saying a comparable wave of ecstasy washed over me as I ate it. It made my shoulders relax, my mind expand, and my belly widen. And, as always, I was totally down with the Mexicans.
Castro’s, Myrtle Ave btwn Ryerson and Gran, Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a good time or to book an eating tour
