The Short, Sad Ballad of Tapatío Hot Sauce
[Editor’s Note: Author Oscar Barajas works in Los Angeles and will be writing dispatches for us from East LA.]
I have grown up and spent most of my life in the West Coast — so there was a bit of a culture shock when I went out to New Jersey a year ago. I visited one of my dearest friends, Jackie, who lives out in North Plainfield. Although I was there to visit her, this was also a sociological experiment. For example, in Los Angeles midnight is a warning that last call is just around the corner while in the East Coast, midnight merely means that you should start getting ready to go out. Jackie took me into her home and showed me the time of my life — even though I almost ruined dinner with one of my culture shock moments.
The moment was beautiful. I was sitting across one of the most beautiful women in the world — a woman so stunning the adjectives needed to describe her have not been entered into any modern lexicon. She was preparing dinner and she was telling me about herself and her upbringing. She spoke of being of Cuban, Colombian and French descent as she moved gracefully along her own kitchen. Her big, brown eyes seem to be dancing with the current state of beds of rice that were on the stove. Ethnically, I was not as “exciting” or “exotic” as she was.
As far back as I can remember — I have always been Mexican. I can’t speak of about mestizo conquests or an Aztec upbringing. I don’t even know how I got my last name. For all I know my great-great-great grandfather could have won it at a church carnival. All I know is that there is an airport in Spain I share my surname with. For all I know a pilot could have pillaged and plundered his way across my father’s hometown leaving the horrific Barajas scar under his Godzilla-like sexually deviant rampage.
Jackie garnished the fish with pepper as she licked her fingers and predicted a delicious dinner. She added olives as they danced in a reddish orange sauce. The aroma filled the kitchen. I was more than impressed because my palette is less than sophisticated. I add a little Mrs. Dash to my Top Ramen once in a while, and that is as far as I go. This wondrous gourmet was adding things like rosemary and telling me the differences between sea salt and regular salt, and how they gave cooking distinct flavors. I nodded stupidly as if I understood. Truth be told, I still do not.
She placed a prepared plate in front of me, as she sat with her own. She looked at me for my first impression. It was one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted — and yet there was something missing. The missing ingredient was beyond salt or pepper. I looked around for a bottle of Tapatío, but there was none handy. She handed me a napkin thinking that was what I was looking for, but I merely tucked it into my pants.
I finally broke down and asked her for some Tapatío.
For those of you who have been living under a rock for the last half decade, Tapatío is a popular orange-colored hot sauce that makes everything edible – including your aunt’s worst cooking. It is orange, and I don’t trust the ingredients listed on the label, because I secretly believe that the company that makes it found a way to put God’s tears into every bottle. It simply makes everything more delicious. I would put it on dirt and eat it if I sure no one was looking.
Alas, though, my exotic and sophisticated companion had never heard of Tapatío, and looked at me as if I had lost whatever was left of my mind. She handed me some Tabasco sauce instead. God bless her heart — it’s just not the same. The meal, though, was still one of the best I ever had. The week was one of the best I ever had. And yet, in the back of my mind I can only bless and curse the people who produce Tapatío for being impotent in denting the market in North Plainfield, New Jersey.
Follow Oscar Barajas on Twitter @Oscarcoatl
