Nov. 4th, 2013 10:28 am
Tres lechuzos
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muckefuckWe never made it down to Pilsen when my brother was in town and yesterday was our first chance to have another crack. I'd forgotten completely about DST ending (really, why couldn't it've come next weekend, when I'll be recovering from a Wagner opera?) so I was up quite early. But there were problems getting in touch with Nuphy, so we weren't out of the house until 9 and didn't arrive at the Museum until quarter to eleven--right at the same time as some massive schoolgroup.
But the kids were alright. The only real inconvenience is that we had to go through the main exhibit twice in order to check out the ofrendas in the second room, including one to the victims of Sandy Hook. I found it affecting, but not as much as the Hurricane Sandy one across the room. Nuphy and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu were most attracted to an artist's altar for her fisherman father, not least of all for the Orthodox iconic nature of his portrait.
Nuphy picked up a couple skullettes for his grandsons from the Last Mondragón. (I admired the way she confidently addressed everyone in very loud and clear Spanish without bothering to ascertain whether they spoke it first.) Then he took us to his favourite local restaurant, Decolores on Halsted. We started walking, but this wore out the old men and they grabbed a bus while I continued on foot.
On the way, we visited the new Bombon which seems half the size of the old one. At least the pan de muertos is as good as ever. (We didn't get tres leches because Nuphs insisted we try that from Kristoffer's.) We all shook our heads at the massive line outside Nuevo León. It's a fine restaurant, but I've never had a meal there to justify waiting even fifteen minutes for a table when I could walk to an equally good restaurant in less than half that time. This is not some food desert, this is bloody Pilsen, people.
And for me, walking is much of the pleasure of the neighbourhood anyway. You never know when you're going to stumble across some quirky art installation or curious juxtaposition of character and "progress". I kept looking for the imagined boundary between (gentrified) East Pilsen and (ethnic) West Pilsen and never finding it; there are trendy cafés popping up west of Ashland and shambolic convenients holding on east of Racine. I passed the the birrieria we went to with Diego and Uncle Betty and the shrine to Ntra Sra de Guadalupe at San Procopio with three full size mock graves laid out in front.
Decolores embodied the liminal state of the west side of Halsted. They had a full bar with a specialty margarita menu, but they also had jamaica (though not under that name at least). There was a full slate of vegetarian offerings, but also a section of old-school standards like tacos al pastor. We seemed to get the one server who wasn't Spanish-speaking. (She was baffled when I asked if the "caramel" tres leches was made with caramel or with cajeta. "I don't know what that is.") Which is appropriate, I guess, because I think we were the only table without at least one native hispanohablante.
I would've been completely happy with my "Deseo de Abelina"--a roulade of bacon-wrapped chicken breast around queso fresco with a coconut cream sauce--if only I hadn't sampled Nuphy's lomo en guajillo and the GWO's mole. O treacherous esophagus, why must you deny me the pleasures of chiles? The tres leches (with cajeta, as it turns out) was good, but I'm still not convinced it's better than Bombon's. It was also a bit much, as we were all rather stuffed at that point. (I blame the the light-as-clouds made-to-order tortilla chips.)
They didn't have chocolate or champurrado, which made me sad that I'd passed on several opportunities to buy it from a street vendor. (A sign for atole con nueces also caught my eye outside Carnitas Don Pedro.) But, as I told the Old Man on the way back, it's not like we can't find it in our neck of the woods. That got him thinking of the "Mayan" chocolate from SoMa so I whipped us up some after we got back to go with the bread of the dead.
But the kids were alright. The only real inconvenience is that we had to go through the main exhibit twice in order to check out the ofrendas in the second room, including one to the victims of Sandy Hook. I found it affecting, but not as much as the Hurricane Sandy one across the room. Nuphy and
monshu were most attracted to an artist's altar for her fisherman father, not least of all for the Orthodox iconic nature of his portrait.Nuphy picked up a couple skullettes for his grandsons from the Last Mondragón. (I admired the way she confidently addressed everyone in very loud and clear Spanish without bothering to ascertain whether they spoke it first.) Then he took us to his favourite local restaurant, Decolores on Halsted. We started walking, but this wore out the old men and they grabbed a bus while I continued on foot.
On the way, we visited the new Bombon which seems half the size of the old one. At least the pan de muertos is as good as ever. (We didn't get tres leches because Nuphs insisted we try that from Kristoffer's.) We all shook our heads at the massive line outside Nuevo León. It's a fine restaurant, but I've never had a meal there to justify waiting even fifteen minutes for a table when I could walk to an equally good restaurant in less than half that time. This is not some food desert, this is bloody Pilsen, people.
And for me, walking is much of the pleasure of the neighbourhood anyway. You never know when you're going to stumble across some quirky art installation or curious juxtaposition of character and "progress". I kept looking for the imagined boundary between (gentrified) East Pilsen and (ethnic) West Pilsen and never finding it; there are trendy cafés popping up west of Ashland and shambolic convenients holding on east of Racine. I passed the the birrieria we went to with Diego and Uncle Betty and the shrine to Ntra Sra de Guadalupe at San Procopio with three full size mock graves laid out in front.
Decolores embodied the liminal state of the west side of Halsted. They had a full bar with a specialty margarita menu, but they also had jamaica (though not under that name at least). There was a full slate of vegetarian offerings, but also a section of old-school standards like tacos al pastor. We seemed to get the one server who wasn't Spanish-speaking. (She was baffled when I asked if the "caramel" tres leches was made with caramel or with cajeta. "I don't know what that is.") Which is appropriate, I guess, because I think we were the only table without at least one native hispanohablante.
I would've been completely happy with my "Deseo de Abelina"--a roulade of bacon-wrapped chicken breast around queso fresco with a coconut cream sauce--if only I hadn't sampled Nuphy's lomo en guajillo and the GWO's mole. O treacherous esophagus, why must you deny me the pleasures of chiles? The tres leches (with cajeta, as it turns out) was good, but I'm still not convinced it's better than Bombon's. It was also a bit much, as we were all rather stuffed at that point. (I blame the the light-as-clouds made-to-order tortilla chips.)
They didn't have chocolate or champurrado, which made me sad that I'd passed on several opportunities to buy it from a street vendor. (A sign for atole con nueces also caught my eye outside Carnitas Don Pedro.) But, as I told the Old Man on the way back, it's not like we can't find it in our neck of the woods. That got him thinking of the "Mayan" chocolate from SoMa so I whipped us up some after we got back to go with the bread of the dead.