In Search of Spice
Mexican food is one of the things we miss the most. One of the first things we seek out whenever we hit a reasonable size city.
Stockholm turned up a delight in the form of Tex-Mex hideaway Geromimo’s FGT (Fuckin’ Good Times, hombre). It had us at the homepage:
We’re in a long-distance relationship. That’s right, we — the brains behind this restaurant, are in a long-distance relationship with the magical world on the other side of the Atlantic — America. In particular a specific part of America — The Southwest.
Yes. We understand each other.
Coincidentally, we were there on 5 May. A couple came in dressed, as we were not, for Cinco de Mayo. At least, I think that was the goal. She wore a long, floral dress, black Frida Kahlo hair, her face painted into a grinning white skull. She was drunk or maybe just a little strange. Spoke loud, accented English and voluble non-Castillian Spanish, propped her feet on a tall stool.
We ate margaritas, enchiladas, tacos with garlic roast potato and chipotle stuffing and an enormous plate of vegan nachos. Whatever they did was magic — an immense, spicy, cheesy, guacamole-y mass of goodness we barely dinted. Later that night, when Chris got back from work, we sat on our vast white hotel bed, ate leftover nachos and drank fennel tea.
Today, in Madrid, we found a place on the opposite end of the vibe spectrum: airy, daylit, minimal (wooden staircases, sleek metal lamp fittings). Sahuaro: Hecho en Mexico, read the black-and-white menus.
We tucked into huarache — a rough corn cake topped with tomatillo sauce, queso fresco, tomatoes and micro-greens — and enchiladas rojas. The food was fresh, pretty, spicy. The starter was warm, chipotle-and-tomato Aztec soup; dessert creamy avocado ice cream served in the shell, on a bed of ice.
Mexican food reminds me of so many good things, and every meal is another layer of happy memory.