A trip to Latin America

This is a restaurant profile that I wrote for a composition class a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, the last time I drove by this restaurant, it looked like it was out of business. I guess the recession finally caught up to it. So, I'm not sure it will do any good for anyone to read this review, but I hate to see it go to waste. I did already get a grade on it a couple of years ago in advanced composition, but I guess my ego would just like a few more people to see it. If nothing else, perhaps it will convince a few of you to give pupusas a shot if you ever get the chance. 

  A Trip to Latin America Leaving the antique, historic-district part of Saint George behind and turning off of Bluff Street and onto Sunset Street, you will encounter, amidst an otherwise small-town city, an area that highly resembles the big city feel of Las Vegas–minus the skyscrapers. For one thing, it’s an extremely busy intersection on Sunset and Bluff St. For another thing, the shopping areas around here remind me of growing up in Las Vegas more than 17 years ago.

 Arriving almost immediately at the intersection of Valley View and Sunset, you will encounter the first of these Las Vegan style shopping centers. The buildings are all of an off-white color of stucco, the small pocket of smog seeming to stick to them, discoloring them instantaneously. Across the street is a big, flashy movie theater, along with a used sporting-goods store, a Rib House, Quizno’s, and several other restaurants. On this side of the street are a bank, a liquor store, a gas station/ convenience store, and Zion Golf. And in the most unlikely of spots—right smack dab in between Zion Golf and Sunset Road—and hidden in plain sight is Las Palmeras, a wonderful little mom and pop Latin-food restaurant. 

 I had driven down this road a hundred times and had never noticed that this place even existed. It seemed to have some sort of an invisible forcefield or other barrier that not only made the restaurant fade into the background for the ninety-four percent of the population with white skin, but also prevented the scores of white senior citizens coming out of Zion Golf or the dozens of Hispanic Americans coming out of the restaurant from crossing over into the unreasonably forbidden territory. Were it not for a friend of mine who had told me about it, I wouldn’t be coming here right now. 

 Yet here I was in search of a cuisine that I had sampled but once nearly ten years ago. That one time was enough to know that I would go to great lengths to get my hands on more of the same. As I got out of the car and walked up to the restaurant, I saw in the front window the typical glowing neon signs advertising “Bud Light” and “Corona.” But in addition to these signs, there were other, less-than-typical handwritten signs advertising “vendemos paletas de yogurt hechas en casa a $1.00” (we sell homemade yogurt pops at $1.00) and “Sabados y Domingos hay menudo y sopa de patas” (Saturdays and Sundays there are—basically two soups made out of cow stomach and foot respectively). Well, I had been warned not to expect a typical Americanized Mexican restaurant. 

 I somewhat cautiously proceeded through the door. Almost instantly, I was transported from this bustling little city in southwestern Utah to a little Latin-American cafe. The Ranchera music filtered down from the ceiling with its constant boom boom bass line, reminiscent of the trombone line emanating from the big top circus tent. Several potted plants sat in front of the window, for atmosphere, I guess. To the left was a small mural of a Salvadoran pupusería (a restaurant specializing in pupusas) right alongside a flag from El Salvador. Several other pictures and souvenirs from El Salvador were hung along this wall, which was painted yellow on top and green on the bottom. This Salvadoran decor was to be expected since, according to the business card and yellow page advertisements, this was supposed to be a “Salvadorean & Mexican Restaurant.” 

 What was a little more surprising were the decorations which lined the other wall, with “Guatemala” all over them. While this would mean little to most people, it instantly drew me in, Guatemala being the place where I had first experienced and fallen in love with the delicious fare I was about to sample anew. I took a step forward, and my eyes were instantly drawn to what had to be the most prominent feature in the place, an enormous 3’x 5’ sign painted onto the kitchen hood, hanging in the air over the pony-wall partition dividing the kitchen from the dining area. The sign read: Ya Servimos Tacos Chicos a (We now serve little tacos of) *Cabeza (Head) *Lengua (Tongue) *Chorizo (Sausage) *Cesos (Brains) *Asada (Roast beef) *Chile Verde (Green Chile) *Tripa (Stomach) *Pollo (Chicken) *Adobada (Marinated Pork) 

 While most Americans would not view this sign with a watering mouth, it certainly appealed to the restaurants main base of customers. It was clearly marketed for the Hispanic community since the English translations, which I included above, were entirely lacking in the restaurant itself. And this sign, among other things, was a sure sign that the culinary experience that a person would have here would be the real deal. It called to my own mind images of an old man from San Jose, Villa Nueva pushing a wheelbarrow through the streets in the early morning hours peddling his wares of body parts from a freshly slaughtered cow. In fact, while in Guatemala, more than one person had slipped some cesos or tripa into my meal without telling me, believing it to be a kindness to provide me with what they believed to be the most flavorful of meats. So, while this may have turned my stomach a little more several years ago and it did nothing to whet my appetite now, it did not divert my attention from the food that I had come here after. 

 After standing there for a few minutes looking around, I found a good place to sit (I guess you seat yourself here). I sat down across the room from several tables full of Spanish-speaking gentlemen who couldn’t seem to take their eyes off of me, wondering what in the world this “canche (white guy)” was doing in their restaurant and how he had gotten past the force field. Suddenly, I had become the minority. I looked around a bit self-consciously and tapped my fingers on the table. Above the heads of my fellow diners hung a sign, much less conspicuous than the body parts tacos sign. It was maybe 8”x 10” and read— in English only—, “Warning, driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs is a serious crime that is prosecuted aggressively in Utah.” Well, I thought as I glanced down at the men chugging their Coronas, I guess they’ve done their part here to combat drunk driving. 

 Not long after I had sat down, a middle-aged man came out with a menu. He seemed about as nervous as I felt. He handed me the menu and then returned to the kitchen in silence. When he returned, he carried chips and salsa, a staple at any Mexican restaurant. I ordered right away. “I’ll have an horchata to drink and to eat, two pupusas.” This was the culinary prize that I was seeking. Daniel (No, he didn’t introduce himself. That’s just what I read on his tag.) walked off to the kitchen in the same quiet manner. I munched on my chips and salsa, looking forward to the meal I would be having shortly. 

This wait was a little bit longer than the last. But who’s counting when your meal, including drink, is only costing you five bucks and there are chips and salsa to hold your attention? As I sat there waiting, two women sped their car into the parking lot directly in front of the restaurant. Parking diagonally across two spaces, they came to a halt with a squeal of their tires, and the middle-aged one jumped out, running into the restaurant. Looking over at me, she frantically asked, “Do you know what their shrimp cocktails are like here? Are they like this?” she asked as she made a bowl out of her hands. “It’s just that I’m spoiled. I’ve been to Mexico,” she said. I didn’t have a chance to do anything more than shake my head before Daniel came out of the kitchen. She once again cupped her hands and asked Daniel, “Are they like this or are they in a circle around a cup?” “No,” he answered copying her cupped hands, “They’re like this.” “Good,” she said, and she turned around to wave her companion into the restaurant. There is one thing to be said about international or ethnic foods: if you’ve had the real thing, you won’t settle for a cheap imitation. This woman knew this, and I knew it as well. 

It wasn’t long before Daniel came out of the back with my pupusas and my horchata. I thanked him and then took a long draught of the cold creamy and cinnamon-filled horchata. Tastes like Guatemala, I thought. Then I moved on to the pupusas. I had only sampled these one time, a Salvadoran lady having served them to me in Guatemala, but it was enough to fall in love (with the pupusas, not the lady). And if the horchata had transported me back to Guatemala, the pupusas put me right back in the little tin roofed home of Lupe. The wonderful aroma of fresh masa stuffed with queso fresco came into my nostrils. As I took the first bite, smothered in red sauce and curtido (a pickled cabbage relish), I went from Guatemala straight to heaven. 

 I left that day with a great appreciation for these little mamá and papá shops and a desire to tell everyone with a desire to experience different cultures, or just good food, about it. As I stepped back into the open air, I was somewhat regrettably transported back to St. George, Utah. But now it was a little bit different, and my outlook was a little bit brighter. I left with the knowledge that a little trip to Latin America wasn’t nearly as far away or as expensive as I had previously thought.