Don't try asking for spaghetti and meatballs or other Italo-American favorites or Fiorenza will unleash, as she did on the website video, an expletive so coarse (though very common in Italian street talk) that I can't reprint it here, even in the Italian original; some maybe offended; I laughed out loud at her directness.
In Huatulco, Oaxaca, one afternoon last month, I spotted a little woman serving Styrofoam cups full of something to passersby. My chow-dar lit up: this is exactly the sort of thing I like to see when I travel: local food prepared on the street for the locals.
I ordered a small basket of catfish at Dino's and it was…fantastic. White fish in general has come to bore me (I don't need to see a tilapia ever again), but this white-ish fish had fluffy flesh and a definite flavor (rather than a lot of generic whitefish that tastes hardly of anything).
Last winter, I did a series of entries on this blog entitled Root Cellar Diary. I started writing this continuing entries in late autumn and I finished in early spring. I figured my root cellar was out of operation for the summer months, when all kinds of local fruits and vegetables would be available for enjoying fresh. I was wrong.
One of the best things about farmers' markets everywhere – and Oak Park Farmers' Market specifically – is that small farmers who come to these markets understand that people are willing to spend a little extra to try something new. We know we're supposed to eat our vegetables, and we're always looking for new ones to keep the plate interesting.
If Canada is our virgin aunt, reserved and kind, fundamentally decent, maybe yearning for a little more fun in her life, then Mexico is our somewhat wild older cousin, also fundamentally decent, with perhaps a rougher sense of justice, and given to escapades and wild excesses; he drinks mezcal.