It’s Sunday morning! Well… It’s noon. MAN! I slept like pre-coke Rick James: “I’m hungry and crying for more!” Wait… Maybe that was Smokey. Whatever. Wife has been up for a while –‘cause she’s Wife– and she’s already scoped out a place to find breakfast, La Guadalupana. It’s quite popular. I mean… Yelp has some impressive reviews, or so I’m told, and that’s enough to give it a try. I’m not allowed to shower: no time. I brush my teeth, toss on some pants and shoes, grab a hat to cover my shame, and we’re off on an adventure.

To La Guadalupana!

Twenty minutes later and I’m still waking up. We find the place and end up spending another fifteen minutes driving around the adjacent blocks looking for somewhere to park. A spot opens up along the side of the road a block up and we hoof it to what ends up being a quaint little bakery that also serves a full menu. The tiny restaurant shares an equally tiny parking lot with a convenience store and a laundromat, which are hilariously (at least to me) called washaterias down here. With the standard Sunday morning washing taking place and the late morning rain rendering the outside seating uninhabitable, we brace to wait for a table.

We walk in the glass door and are met with the smell of fresh baking bread, buttered sugar, frijoles flavored with pork and an audaciously jovial gentleman guiding traffic in, out and around all the doors and tables. He greets us and has us write our name on a scrap of paper taped to the display case. The walls are decorated with pictures of Chef and crew: reviews of the place. Apparently, he’s an accomplished pastry chef who’s been in business for more than two decades, fifteen years of which here in Houston. We’re called to a table and sat with menus where we both order coffee and I have an almond croissant. The coffee is just like mom used to make for guests when I was a kid. She never drank coffee but I remember people raving over it. She would keep fresh ground beans and, while brewing, would toss a couple sticks of canela and a dash of chicory into the basket letting the subtle aromatics melt into the creamy coffee overtones. I’m not sure if they brewed with sticks or had the coffee specially blended but it was lovely and dark and warming. It paired brilliantly with a rainy day and a buttery, sweet croissant.

Bring It On

The wait staff took our order quickly: Migas for wife –eggs scrambled with tomato, peppers, onions and fried strips of corn tortilla– and Huevos Rancheros for me –poached eggs served on lightly fried corn tortillas and smothered in a creamy, spicy tomato-based sauce. We split a Pork Tamal, a steamed corn-wrapped pouch cooked in a cornhusk. The lead waiter, the talkative guy, was rushing back and forth greeting, serving, cleaning, ushering and answering any questions the guests could throw at him. A couple minutes passed and, just as our food arrived, we even saw Chef walking around in turn. He took time to shake hands, welcome people to the shop and make sure everything was going well.

Somewhere Familiar

The flavors were so incredibly traditional. Wife’s Migas were cooked to perfection. The tortilla was still crunchy and the eggs, though underseasoned, were fresh and tasty. My Huevos Rancheros were great too! The sauce pulled it all together, albeit also under seasoned. The eggs were oil-basted, a classic Mexican preparation, which left my personal preference for eggs a little under-excited. Both were served with incredibly traditionally prepared beans and rice. They were reminiscent of the flavors I remember: heavy and fatty, dense and filling; slow cooked. The flavor of the pork came out in the beans beautifully. Reflecting back now I can’t help but feel something was left to be desired but I’m being picky, I think. The flavors didn’t pop like I wanted. The heaviness stood unbroken, almost challenging. This is the way of real Mexican cuisine, I know. Tradition is steeped in history and necessity. When you’re hungry, you make food that serves to that purpose. You make food that will ensure you can handle the day. These sides could handle the day and did so well. The Tamal in turn: fluffy but dense, seasoned with fat and steeped in the same history as the beans and rice.

As we finished up our Sunday meal, we watched a guest, who was appreciating Chef’s truck, being ushered outside and shown up close by Chef! I even watched this man, dressed in full chef’s whites, stop and clear a table! It was wonderful. We were offered coffee to go as we paid, an offer we took, as well as one more of those Croissants. OMG THEY WERE GOOD! On our way out one of the regulars showed up with their daughter who was hoisted up into the air and spun around by the Head Waiter. (Oh yeah! It also turns out the talkative guy is also the chef/owner’s son!) The little girl was given a cookie of her choosing and set down to run back to mom and dad. There were handshakes and hugs, smiles and full tummies; more hugs, more smiles, more handshakes.

Reflections

If you’ve read any of the words I’ve penned about our food excursions, you know my modus operandi: I will not be led by bias and I will not give in to airs. The experience should cover more than food. Food is an expression of one’s self and the presentation should represent honesty, not just skill. Live up to your offering.

I loved my experience at La Guadalupana. The atmosphere was everything a rainy Sunday afternoon should be. If I’m being completely honest, I was a little let down by my food, but only the tiniest bit. I smelled tradition. I tasted history steeped in necessity and creativity born of hardship. I tasted real Mexican cuisine, where fat is used to impart flavors because it’s time-tested, it achieves the desired effect, it’s readily available and that’s how it’s been done. I loved it. I think the grey day had me wanting something a little brighter, something where the presenter was willing to challenge the old standards and still live up to their offering. I didn’t get that. Instead, I was offered a plate of comfort, of history: a beautiful representation of proud tradition. Chef offered himself on a plate. It was raw and unfettered, noble and true. On a scale of tip-the-hat (low) to shank-the-chef (high) This poor bastard’s gonna die. OMG THAT CROISSANT!

Chef Shanker

Keeping the world in balance.
Have you ever eaten something so delicious it made you angry?