translates into "this sucks"...

El Penjamos
Morrillton, Arkansas


I tried finding the name "Penjamos" in the spanish dictionary. For some reason, I could not find it, nor any facsimile thereof. Perhaps it is slang for something, similar to American slang which often takes forever to make it into Webster's latest edition. I know what "pendejo" means, having heard it many times shouted in many kitchens...a perjoritive term slighting the receiver and causing the giver to smile or laugh out loud at the other's misfortune. Of course, what would follow would be one or more of the following: "puto", "maricon", "chupa mi vierga"...etc, etc, etc, (and often in tandem), but I digress...

I spent the last four days with my sons in Arkansas. It was our first trip since the divorce where I could spent a string of days with them...just them...soaking them in and doing Daddy stuff--and outdoor stuff, which I truly enjoyed with my father back in the day. Fishing, hiking, swimming, checking out girls. Okay maybe I did the last alone while they were swimming, but hey the lifeguards were hot.

The final night, I wanted to treat them to a sitdown meal somewhere that didn't involve chicken tenders, cheeseburgers or pizza. There was only one "restaurant" at the lodge we stayed; a bland place for those folks (like me) who didn't think to reserve a cabin with an actual kitchen and had to fend for himself and his tribe. I write not about this place, but I would be remiss if I didn't include it in the pantheon of all things that suck about food.

SO, we made our way to Morrillton, a town of 6500 that serves as a gateway to the State Park where we made our home for 4 days. Having driven there 2 nights earlier for a proposed fireworks show, I knew that there wasn't a ton of choices, but really wasn't paying attention at that point, occupied more by trying to find the damn park where the damn fireworks show was...dammit. As we cruised up and down the main drag on this fateful night, we passed a place offering "mexican food" called El Penjamos. There were several cars in front, so I figured lets give it a shot. A shot is what I should have had prior to dining.

Upon entry, the place seemed okay enough, given the faux pink walls (maybe giving the impression of a pastel adobe?), simple tables scattered throughout, a glass cabinet at front which served as the cashier stand/menu holder/tacky gift idea center and the presence of several very bored looking staffers.

"How many?
"Three, please"
"Okay"

The above started off the exchange in a very awkward manner. You could tell that there was no pop...no sizzle to this place. The patrons looked bored, the staff bored; was I in some kind of restaurant pergatory?

We sat and gave a drink order to Mr. Happy the server. Then Mrs. Happy came along and delivered the obligatory chips and salsa. The salsa was very quaintly served in a mini carafe which held enough for the 3 of us to pour into our small black ramekins styled after volcanic rock...if volcanic rock was made of plastic that is.

Perhaps we have been in Texas too long...or maybe just the right amount of time, given the circumstances. Regardless, you know that something is up when your oldest son, all of 9 years old, remarks "Dad, this salsa isn't very good. It's not spicy enough..." Hallelujah for them being born in Texas, baby. Then the younger one, Sutton, adds "and the chips aren't salted". Maybe its my fault for trying to raise them with an awareness of good food. I don't know.

After a liberal dosing of both chips and salsa with the table salt, we continued. Mr. Happy came back over to ask what we would like to eat. Tristan chose a soft beef taco plate, Sutton a chicken burrito and for myself, an "enchiladas rancheros" plate: two enchildadas smothered in a "red sauce" with beans and rice. To kick off the meal, we ordered a small dish of guacamole.

While waiting for the food, I take the time to visit the men's room. While a man's toilet is his throne, this place took it to the literal end. I walk into the closet sized bathroom and there sits the lone toilet upon a 2 foot pedestal. There are even steps that bear to the right to get to the throne. Unfortunately, the size of the bathroom precluded much of a place to stand whilst using said toilet (there was no urinal...not enough room!). So I find myself with feet 1/2 on the ledge and 1/2 off into space trying to concentrate on my biz. If I hadn't locked the door and someone walked in on me, they would have knocked me in the ass and caused me to tumble onto the dirty tile. So I finished quickly to say the least. Leaving the bathroom, I had an open look into the kitchen, watching the line guys, all with that same vacuous expression on their faces that all of the other staffers had, slinging monochrome plate after monochrome plate onto the expo window.

I return to the table, passing several more bored patrons and employees all with the same Stepford look to them. Or maybe its night of the living/eating dead. I often get my movie metaphors mixed up. As I get to the table the guacamole arrives. You know that stuff that you buy at the supermarket in a bag that claims to be guacamole? You tear open a corner of the bag and squish the green mush into a bowl, garnish with a couple diced tomatoes and voila! Guacamole for all! No flavor and again, the salt shaker went into overtime.

Soon the plates arrive. Very basic presentation on all; entree at 9:00, rice and beans covering the rest of the plate. The beans obviously came from a can..perhaps the same can of Rosarita refried beans Mother used to buy at the supermarket. Great back then since I didn't know any better...not so great now. The rice was no better t the beans, slightly hardened from sitting in a hot pan, then the pass-thru window waiting for Mr. Happy to retrieve and slap in front of me and the princes.

The "red sauce" reminded me, colorwise, of a fake BBQ sauce I once saw...neon red in color and absolutely horrid in taste. I was a franchise consultant for a nationwide BBQ joint and had to travel to a far-off outpost off the New Jersey Turnpike. The location was a travel plaza...one of their attempts at 2nd-gen'ing their concept to fit into smaller venues. Well, one of my tasks was to make sure that all of the franchisees stuck to a corporate ingredient list; the one rule that was sure to be broken by some of these idiots trying to save a buck in hopes they would not get caught. This "red sauce" was worse then that. It tasted of simple tomato sauce dusted with a little salt (very little) and perhaps some cumin once came near it....not sure. Other than that, then "red sauce" was "really sucky". It covered a simple pair of tortillas filled with tepid cheese. The rice and beans were not to be outdone however in fighting for control of the plate as it was all slopped on as if by a dishonorably discharged veteran of some war, whose KP duty then made it possible for him to find an exciting career in the post-military food industry. Yippee.

The boys plates fared no better. In fact, I almost couldn't tell the difference between my enchilada plate and Suttie's burrito plate. Good times.

Right after my divorce, in a fit of insanity and instability usually present during those times, I contemplated very seriouly taking my kids and stealing them away from everyone on a cross-country spree, never to look back. I didn't want to be away from them and I didn't want their mother to have them either. I came to my senses of course, but realize now that if this is the food we would be subjected to while trying to hide out in different parts of the country, I might as well not leave Texas at all. So, their mother caught a break.

Perhaps the looks on the employees faces foreshadowed an impending closing of their restaurant. Perhaps hours had been cut back due to lack of business (although being one of the only places in town serving mexican food, I have to believe they would be busier). Perhaps they were still pissed from the US beating Mexico in the Gold Cup. Perhaps a death of one of their co-workers. Or perhaps they were just beat down from serving this food night after fucking night to a bunch of bored looking jerk-offs who didn't know good food from a tractor-pull? Maybe they wanted to serve better but god forbid the citizens of Morrillton allow them to put any spices or flavor or creativity into their menu.

Good food is possible, no matter where you are. I have eaten at the French Laundry in Napa, at Javier's and La Duni and Hattie's in Dallas, at Postrio in SF, at Coyote Cafe in Santa Fe (before Mark Miller decided to get popular and write cookbooks instead of staying in the kitchen). BUT some of the best places I have eaten in were little out of the way joints that no one writes about and I am constantly on the lookout for those places time and again. Good food is possible and sometimes it just takes educating people on what that is. My generation? We started on Van De Kamp pork and beans, Kraft Mac and Cheese and Pillsbury muffins. Not great at all, yes? But over time, hopefully most of us have developed palates or at least an interest in food that tastes good in no small part because it was made with pride. Good food doesn't have to be fancy in it's presentation, doesn't have to literally reach towards the ceiling in an attempt to wow and astonish the eater, doesn't have to include million-dollar ingredients like truffles and 90-year old balsamic and all that crap. It just has to be made by people as if they were eating it. I guarantee you...none of the staff at El Penjamos eats the food at the restaurant. They go home and made tortillas by hand, roll tamales with care and cook beans from scratch. They drink cervezas and laugh at the clones who come in to El Pendejo...sorry, El Penjamos night after night.

I remember watching Chef Joe Goetze stirring a tilt skillet full of soup for a homeless program we were doing at the time.(A tilt skillet is a marvelous contraption that allows you to do soups, braise meats or almost anything else in big quantities, then "tilts" via a gear device so you can pour whatever directly into containers. They are awesome and workhorses in a lot of kitchens). Now, this soup was destined for a bunch of folks who probably could have cared less HOW much pride Joe took in making it. For them it was a meal that they could count on in a life not being able to count on much. But you could see the look in his eyes as he was making the soup...careful, thoughtful and patient. He wanted it to be right. Weeks later, the homeless folks we were giving the soup out to wanted to know "where Joe's soup was" as Joe had taken a week off for vacation. They noticed, and most others do too. Do good food and expect good food...no matter where you are.