I Hate Wraps

Why do I hate wraps? Because they are nothing more than trendy, moved-to-the-O.C. fancy food, while all the while denying their humble, ethnic parentage. A rose by any other name is still a rose, but a wrap by any other name is still a burrito. Yes, dear reader, a burrito. You can stuff it with caviar or foie gras, and it will still be a burrito (that dresses like a bimbo).

Ever the voice of reason, Rob, an Australian friend, cannot wrap his brain around my antipathy toward this seemingly innocuous dish. Having lived in Europe, he contends that wraps are an American take on French crêpes, or something of the sort. Therefore, I decided to conduct some “research” of my own. I found a 2003 Williams-Sonoma catalog which featured green spinach and red sundried-tomato flour tortillas, manufactured just for them by a “Mexican émigré”*, which are perfect for, you guessed it, wraps.

Upon consideration, perhaps it is not the dish that I hate as much as the word itself. The word wrap, in one of its verb forms, means, “To fold or roll something up into a compact bundle.” With a flexibility typical of English, wrap has now morphed into a noun that is remarkable only for its asinine ugliness—how prosaic it sounds, how utterably devoid of even a little bit of poetry. Can’t someone come up with an elegant, more creative name for the burrito’s mutant offspring?

May I suggest an alternative name, something that gives a quiet nod to its Mexican roots while at the same time satisfying the linguistic whims of the wrap’s upscale admirers? How about Asno (ahs′-noh)? I would like a red sun-dried tomato asno with prosciutto and basil sounds so much better than I would like a green spinach wrap, don’t you think? It sounds so very Italian, like the Arno. Besides, asno and burrito both mean the same thing (see the bottom of this page).

Tonight, I think will take myself to my favorite hole-in-the-wall taco joint and will enjoy a simple, yet delicious burrito of tender pork carnitas with green tomatillo with chile serrano and cilantro salsa together with a slice of panela cheese and fresh pinto beans de la olla, washed down with an icy Pacifico beer. Others can eat their expensive, stone-cold wraps, er, asnos if they desire.

So, if a friend were to offer me one, would I refuse it? Most certainly not—I would hate to hurt her feelings. Who knows? I just might like the little green monstrosity. Now, would I ever tell you if I did? Not at all—I’m keeping that under wraps.

*“Mexican émigré”? It "gives a certain elegance to misfortune”, doesn’t it?

A Cup of Mexican Hot Chocolate Nostalgia

Nostalgia can sometimes play tricks on you. Some memories are so vivid that you literally feel the same emotions you felt as when they first happened. Others are nebulously indistinct, evanescent as a coastal fog at midday. Did they really happen, or was it just your imagination? The wry expression of a person you've just met, a musical notes wafting out of a storefront door as you walk past, the whiff of someone's perfume--all these can trigger memories of people or events from your past. For me, just smelling Mexican hot chocolate brings me back to a cold February evening of my childhood.
My sisters and I are sipping hot Mexican chocolate from bright blue enameled tin cups while sitting at the kitchen table, covered with a white cotton tablecloth, cross-stitched in red roses that our mother embroidered before she met our dad. She serves us large chunks of toasted bolillo, a Mexican roll that resembles a deflated football, hot from the oven and smothered in butter for us to to enjoy with our hot chocolate. The fragrant aroma of bittersweet chocolate, mingled with the scent of almonds and cinnamon spice, fills the entire house. From the brightly illuminated kitchen we watch as our parents, still young and guapitos, slow dance in the darkened living room to Serenata Sin Luna (Moonless Serenade), José Alfredo Jimenez's intensely romantic, yet sweetly melancholy mariachi ballad. Presently, a snappy little cumbia comes on. Instantly forgetting the chocolate, we all jump out of our seats to join in, hopping, rather than dancing around and stepping on their feet. What brings more happiness to a child than to see one’s parents delight in each other’s company? I do not think that this lovely childhood memory would have been quite the same if we were all drinking a spot of tea with biscuits, wouldn’t you agree?

I read somewhere that Mexicans consume over 5 pounds ( 2.26 kilos) of chocolate per year, more than any other people. Perhaps the Europeans were the first to add sugar and milk to chocolate, but we Mexicans gave it soul, and if you adore chocolate, well dear reader, then perhaps you have a Mexican soul, too.

So to all you Mexicans out there who are reading this post, I will not presume that you do not know how to prepare Mexi hot chocolate (that is unless you're a Mexican guy), but I love how this one combines chocolate with three other flavors, cinnamon, vanilla, and chili, most of them just a few of Mexico’s deliciously sublime gifts to the world. You will not really notice the chili, but everyone who drinks this will taste the difference. No need to tell them right way. Just wait for the compliments, and only tell them about the chili after they have finished the last drop. Buen provecho, and may this delicious Mexican hot chocolate help you create some memories that you will never forget.

Mexican Hot Chocolate with a Little Kick of Chili

(Have some culinary courage!)

1 quart milk

2 round tablets of Mexican Hot Chocolate, or to taste (Ibarra's, etc., available at most grocery stores, or go online)

1 tablespoon vanilla

1 pinch salt

dash of chili powder (go ahead, add more, a lot more!)

dash of cinnamon to taste

semi sweet chocolate pieces or sugar to taste (optional)

Cut up the chocolate, or do as my mother used to do, grate it. In a saucepan, bring the milk and the chocolate to a boil.

After the chocolate has completely melted and is thoroughly blended with the milk, add the salt, cinnamon and the chili powder.

Simmer for about 10 minutes or so, and then, roll the handle of a molinillo (see picture, above) in the chocolate between the palms of both hands. Or, using a whisk or a electric manual beater, beat until very foamy.

Serve immediately with hot buttered bolillos or french bread straight out of the oven.