[dropcap]F[/dropcap]or the record, I didn’t vote for Trump. Didn’t vote for Hillary neither. I was pulling for Ted Cruz before he got knocked out of the race, but not for reasons you might suspect. I wanted a Texan in the White House mainly because I was hoping Cruz might issue an executive order to put an end to an injustice that has been going on way too long. Nope, nothing to do with immigration or health care. I’m talking about something that eats at me like a tick on bull’s gonad.
How in blue blazes can an eating establishment serve a bowl of tomato squeezings with some green herbs stirred in and call it salsa if it’s as mild as breast milk? Salsa is supposed to be fiery hot in my book. Salsa should light you up as that first dipped tortilla chip lands on your tongue.
Good salsa will make your eyes water and your nose run. Great salsa will melt ear wax and kill intestinal parasites.
I have spent most of my life savoring the spicy cuisine from south of our border. As a baby, I didn’t have any store-bought pacifier. My mom stuck a serrano pepper in my mouth to hush me up while she did the ironing and watched Days of Our Lives. Ever since, I have eaten pert near every type of Mexican food there is. Heck, I even sampled a tamale made with armadillo meat. Not a big fan of armadillo. Slimy as snail poop and about as tasty.
So, when I visit a new Mexican food restaurant, I am excited about trying the salsa. But when the salsa tastes like curdled V8 juice, I suspect the entrees will be as bland as a Baptist preacher’s joke book. Okay, I reckon in northern states and down in southern Florida where old Yankees go to die, restaurants can get away with mixing some oregano and tomato entrails and calling it salsa, but in the south, and especially here in Texas, salsa should singe your nose hairs. If a bowl of salsa can’t break up that sinus blockage that you’ve had since cedar fever season, then it shouldn’t be called salsa.
I recently ate at a Mexican food restaurant along the Texas coast that should know something about making spicy salsa. I suspected right away that it wouldn’t be real hot since I didn’t see any jalapeno seeds floating on top, but there was some leafy thing mixed in that I prayed was cilantro. As that first chip passed under my nostrils, I knew this was going to be a big disappointment. That salsa was milder than a South Texas winter. I’ve had gnats fly in my mouth that were tastier than that bowl of tomato guts. Dagnabbit, this is Texas! We demand good and spicy salsa. Not something you can spoon-feed an infant.
Up in Fort Worth, there’s a restaurant that serves authentic Mexican food. I could tell y’all a story about my nephew who sampled the food there as a toddler, but I’m sure his parents and the staff at Joe T Garcia’s would like to forget the entire incident. I’m sure that highchair went straight to the dumpster. But, dang, that was good salsa!
Even Taco Bell tries to pass off its hot sauce as being spicy. Yeah, they have one packet that’s labeled “Diablo” but if hell is that hot, you’d better be buried in long sleeves. And isn’t “Mild hot sauce” an oxymoron? I coined the name Probably Hot for the sauce they hand out at Taco Bell, a term we frequently use in our family.
So, this is why I wanted a Texan with some Latino DNA in his blood like Ted Cruz to sit in the White House, but instead we have Trump. I just hope President Trump doesn’t deport the Mexicans who know how to make good salsa, just the ones who think Whataburger’s spicy ketchup is a zesty condiment.
Clint Younts’ mother was a saint who wrote all about the area in her book, “People and Places in and around Historic Buda.” She probably gave him that serrano pepper to make him be quiet. His wife does the same these days.
