Oh, did I tell you I’m in Mexico? A piqueno village an undislcosed distance from Puerto Vallarta. And to all those in uncharacteristically soggy Seattle right now, goddamn it’s sunny and warm down here. I’m writing this in the town’s realtor/tortilleria/internet cafe. God, I love Mexico.

I got two words o’ the day for you: FOOD + CART.

Drop my ass anywhere in the world and I will find one. Except in my own lame, psycho-hygenic, nuevo-riche, puritanical city. (Eh hem, I judge because I love!) Food carts, to me, are the pinnacle of food. I wipe my ass with degustation menus. Food cart chefs specialize. They do one or two things really, really well.

The fruit of my mobile culinary chase tonight specializes in enchiladas pollo. 1) She pan fries them for just a few seconds, so they have give and crunch. 2) The chicken is rotisserie. 3) The sauce is just shy of thick, with a fresh red pepper afront and a soft, building heat. 4) She also adds a little fresh dried oregano into the fresh and gritty cotija. And 5) The crema on top is closer to a savory version of Chantilly cream (she nods knowingly at this comment) than plain old sour cream. The effect is awesome. I have four. Add two quesadillas (also flash fried), and a couple of manzanita sodas and you’re blissed out for $63 pesos. Oh, and the sweetest woman in the world waiting on you. That’s a lot of goodness coming out of a 3 foot by 5 foot kitchen. And almost one cooking tip per dollar spent.

I forgot my card reader–so until I find a Mac with iPhoto, I’m text only for a while. I’ll update photos when I can. But frankly, now that I’m down here, I feel like not giving a shit.

Matter of fact, I’m not giving a shit right now.

Time to hit the crepe cart. Hasta luego, my pasty amigos.