Clubbing the Monkey

In honour of Cinco de Mayo (which by the by, is far more popular in America than in Mexico where it is scarcely acknowledged), we set out once more in search of Mexican food, this time operating on advice made by a dyke from New York. I must confess to having no confidence in the ability of a New Yorker to discern quality Mexican fare, and have found in general, over the course of my limited interactions with lesbians, that seldom do they share my tastes or inclinations. Upon expressing these sentiments, she informed me that she had lived in Texas for several years. I cannot say that this admission elevated her credentials in my opinion, as I am not particularly fond of Tex-Mex cuisine. However, lacking as we are in reliable Hispanic sources of gustatory recommendations, I felt obliged to investigate.

(My, but my writing style is prone to infection by my current reading selection. Any guesses as to which 19th century lady author I’ve been reading of late?)

We made our way via a complicated zig-zag of pubs and beer gardens to the lively and bohemian neighbourhood of Woolloomooloo (affectionately known as “The Loo”). After ensuring that the owners of Café Pacifico were not on an extended holiday and that the facility was not undergoing extensive renovations, we retired to a nearby roof top lounge to await their opening. As the last glow of daylight faded from the warm autumn sky, we were treated to a most wondrous overhead procession of megachiroptera. Their numbers were so staggering, I felt sure they must be swirling in a circle above the tavern – there couldn’t be so many bats on one planet! At length, the crick in my neck and descending darkness forced me to turn my attention away from their evening migration and return to the task at hand.

Outside the brightly painted façade of Café Pacifico, we could hear music, laughter, and the clinking of ice cubes in Margarita glasses. We ascended the stairs and surveyed the lively décor. Paintings of muertos festooned the red walls. The toilets were segregated by images from the popular Loteria game: El Diablito for the gents, La Sirena for the ladies. The rafters were stacked with shabby but genuine carton boxes of Pacifico, Sol, and Bohemia beer. I held up two fingers to the hosts behind the counter.

“Ah sorry, mate. We’re totally booked out.”

I looked once more around the room and observed rather vocally that there were but two other diners at a table in a hall set for at least 60. He assured me that the place would be shoulder to shoulder by eight o’clock. I employed my recently acquired whingeing skills, and began recounting our misadventures to Azteca of the previous week, my swelling homesickness, and the fact that my heart would surely break if I did not eat some Mexican food this very instant. At last he conceded and said we could eat at the bar. I would gladly have eaten in the toilet, if necessary. Then the more quick witted of the hosts suggested that we could have a table IF we promised to vacate it by 8 o’clock. I looked at the time. It was currently 6:15. I had every intention of being in bed by 8 o’colck.

“Is your service that slow?”

He assured us it was not and we assured him we would consume our meal in the allotted time frame and so we were seated at a cheery red table with a cozy candle beneath a Diego Rivera print. We ordered some 17 dollar Margaritas (have I had occasion to mention the outrageous tax on hard alcohol in Australia?) and perused the equally expensive menu. The dishes were standard fare, tacos, fajitas, burritos, with nothing that stood out as particularly exotic save for a beef dish, the name of which now escapes me…something like plato de pico pequeño.

It was quickly dawning on me that regional cuisine is by necessity and virtue, just that: regional. Although such innovations as electronic commerce and overnight freight shrink the globe on a daily basis, the true essence of a “place” is thoroughly linked to our sensual detection and can never be completely recreated elsewhere. While subtle hints can stimulate our memories to conjure up feelings of past occasions, it is the difference between being in love and remembering having been in love.

And so, because Australia is not Mexico, or California, or Texas, the food here can only reflect their unfortunate British heritage and subsequently under cultivated taste for spice. However, it does have merits all its own. The avocados here are unrivalled in flavour and texture. The quality of the beef is robust and refreshing. The corn chips were authentic and the salsa flavourful, providing considerable relief to my nostalgic tastebuds.

Overall, I would rate the meal on par with methadone – it satisfied the craving but lacked the euphoria.