Texas does NOT need rain. My mother and I are pretty infallible rainmakers for the state, to the point where we even managed to bring snow on Christmas one year, thrilling the pants off Victoria County’s headline writers ("Christmas miracle! First snow in 100 years!"). This year it appears that we’ve surfed in on the edge of a spectacular wave of storms, although I wish we’d managed not to drag the tornados along with us. On a more positive note, the long wet spring has provided a spectacular crop of wildflowers, including the famous bluebonnets. Catching bluebonnet season is about as easy as seeing the cherry blossoms in DC: You can make a guess at the date, but the best way to ensure that you see them is to have a completely flexible schedule and a local who can call you in on a week’s notice.
The other really good news, at least from a personal standpoint, is that the in-flight magazine had a piece about Austin’s breakfast tacos, and La Mere and I followed its instructions to one of the scroungiest places I’ve ever been. The reviewer said she had driven past the place for five years, not because she thought it looked like a bad restaurant but because she thought it was a condemned building. For those of us who grew up snarfing down cha gio in Northern Virginia’s minimally decorated Vietnamese restaurants and barbecue in cinderblock hulks where oilcloth-covered tables were swank, that sounded like a genuine Mark O’ Qualitah. The Tamale House turned out to be a tiny place with a concrete porch overlooking a parking lot and Route 183 (justly not famed in song and story), a counter for placing orders (“No checks, no credit cards, no debit cards, no exceptions” and “Don’t complain about the heat; AC is expensive and this way your food is cheap”), and an open kitchen staffed by several portly women stirring enormous skillets of potatoes and eggs. We ordered platters of migas, and for a bit less than five bucks got Styrofoam trays of eggs scrambled with ham, cheese, tomatoes, tortilla frag, and jalapenos; refried beans; and potatoes fried with an inordinate amount of coarse black pepper. Clearly this is one of the mother foods for recovering from hangovers. We swiped the foam clean with fresh tortillas and promptly shoved off; space was at a premium and our cherry spot overlooking a pickup was coveted by a couple of guys in feed caps.
Storms permitting, tomorrow it’s a road trip to San Antonio. There’s something there I’m supposed to remember, but what the hell could it be?
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Barely having tasted the coffee this morning and already my mouth is watering. Dear friend you must try Spanish migas one day, just as I must try this version. Spanish chorizo, onions, whole cloves of garlic, potatoes in a ceramic dish baked until the garlic is sweet and the potatoes have a crunch.
Yeah, I wiki'd the noble miga and found out that it's much like barbecue: a single name that means very different things in different places. Today I got a miga taco in San Antonio: almost no vegetables, but a supremely comforting dish of eggs and tortilla bits wrapped in a fresh flour tortilla and served with homemade salsa. I hope that it's going to chase off what feels like an oncoming cold. Apparently I'm allergic to flying.
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