| rev:text
| - Like most people who visit Las Vegas I found myself high on meth and standing outside a cockfight. I lost virtually all my money on a brown speckled bastard who had less fight in him than an Amish minister on Quaaludes. As I am watching my soon to be stew meat friend get his eyes plucked out by a bird that looked strangely like Mathew Modine I couldn't fight the sensation that chewing on my bottom lip wasn't going to fill me up. When I was a kid, six or seven, one good hard pull of meth and I wouldn't eat for two days. Nowadays no one has any pride. No one stands behind a product. I walked down the street cursing the world and wondering what they were teaching kids in schools these days. I remember like it was yesterday my 4th grade teacher Mr. Huddsfupple telling me, "Rex, never step too hard on your product, it's bad for business." Two weeks later the FBI arrested him in the parking lot and I was forced to watch him sob like a little girl who lost her doll. Sadly, that pathetic display made me forget his words of wisdom.
With my head pounding, my cash low and my stomach growling I was having a hard time embracing the horror. Flash bang images of dead birds and greedy bastards smiling as they took my money while babbling something in Flemish I made myself a vow...never...ever...go to a Nordic Cockfight again. God damn you Flemish bastards! God damn you to hell, I screamed out loud without realizing it. I heard someone yell to keep it down. I clinched my fist and looked up to see the person who was about to get a good old thrashing like we did when I was a kid in Nepal. Those Buddhists really had a tenancy to ask for it. Prepared to kick some ass I noticed that no one was around...then it hit me...I was the one who yelled. All I could see was some yuppie couple crossing the street against traffic, their mouths agape. Damn tourists. This is Vegas I screamed, and for good measure, I laughed maniacally. They looked scared. Their lesson learned; never leave the Strip if you aren't prepared for what Las Vegas really is all about.
Suddenly the smell hit me. It wasn't all that beef stew looking shit those Flemish scum were jamming down their pasty white gullets...no...this was real food...street food...and most importantly it smelled like cheap food. I can tell the smell of cheap food like I can spot a druid. I dug through my pocket and found two small bags (don't ask), some cock feathers, a recipe for Springerle, and I can't stand anise. Finally, under my lucky yoyo and a small picture of Eudora Welty I found a ten dollar bill. Those Flemish pricks didn't get all my money. I looked towards the smell and saw the sign that changed my life...Aye Jose's Tacos. I wandered inside to this small square building and shakily approached the counter. The man behind the counter looked strangely like a mix between Enrico Fermi and a dude that once sold me the best bag of weed ever. He asked me how I was doing. Twenty four minutes later, he asked what I wanted to order. I told him I needed two carnitas taco and a lamb chimicanga. Do you want anything to drink he asked? I laughed. "Do I look like I need more to drink?" "No," he responded." No you don't." He was right.
I sat down at a booth in the small and simply decorated but clean dining area. I sauntered up to the counter, trust me it was a saunter, and looked down at my plate. It was a thing of beauty. Something that stops the heart, freezes the mind and causes uncontrollable drooling. The chimichanga was a beautiful golden brown with a representation of the colors of Mexico with sour cream, Salsa Verde and red sauce on top. Not too much, just enough to please the eye and add taste. He asked if I wanted red or green sauce. I told him I want the red, because all of us who have spent time in the great southwest (4 years in an undisclosed New Mexico state facility) know it is the mark of a true Mexican restaurant. The tacos used thin corn tortillas and had the delicious fried pork with diced onions and Salsa Verde. I walked back to the booth and sat down. It took me eight amazing bites of my food to realize that I had inadvertently sat down at a table with two Mexican Mafia members and a hooker with a severe cough. I stared at them blankly and got up. They were confused. I sat back down at my table and continued my meal.
The chimichanga was cooked perfectly and filled with tender meat in a thin red spicy sauce. The outside was crispy and the tortillas were light and airy. The oil had only made the tortilla lighter and more delicate. It wasn't heavy and greasy like anything you find at some chain restaurant in a suburban shopping center. This was the way it was supposed to be. This was the chimichanga Holy Grail. I only say that because for about 5 minutes I saw the Virgin Mary. Nice chick. The delicate crispy outside was filled with tender lamb and the sauce was deep and flavorful. The red sauce is the best in the city.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)
![[cxml]](/fct/images/cxml_doc.png)
![[csv]](/fct/images/csv_doc.png)
![[text]](/fct/images/ntriples_doc.png)
![[turtle]](/fct/images/n3turtle_doc.png)
![[ld+json]](/fct/images/jsonld_doc.png)
![[rdf+json]](/fct/images/json_doc.png)
![[rdf+xml]](/fct/images/xml_doc.png)
![[atom+xml]](/fct/images/atom_doc.png)
![[html]](/fct/images/html_doc.png)