On the subject of Santa Cruz doesn't exactly suck...

WHERE GOD EATS ON HER DAY OFF

Whether quizzing security guards in front of an Albuquerque convention center at 6:00 AM or rolling into a new hometown and stopping at the locally owned and operated seafood market, Foodie that I am, the first query out of my mouth is always, “Where’s the best Mexican food in town?” It is surprising how well informed the working class is regarding such critical matters. In the small seafood shop in Santa Cruz earlier this week the guy behind the fresh clams and mussels on ice didn’t miss a beat. “Been here 30 years and the best is Casa Rosita’s on Portola.” Not a surmise nor an educated guess. Not a second hand tale by word of mouth. A statement of fact. Directions were a little vague, but the best is always small and out of the way; hard to find especially if you are an incomer like myself and don’t yet know Porter from Cliff Drive.

Now I know that some of you will swear that I often claim to have had the best Mexican food ever… and, on a sliding scale, this is true. What I probably said was more akin to “the best I’ve had in a long time” or “truly amazing… etc.”

So much for the disclaimer portion of this epistle. This was, without reservation, the very best, authentic, rural Mexican food that I have ever eaten. There. I said it. And I stick by it.

True to the directions, it was tucked in behind a BBQ joint in a little strip mall, next to a barbershop and, equally true, the owner, a tiny abuelita, was running the cash register and keeping things ship-shape. She seated us at a window table surrounded by the de rigueur tinware Corona parrots, plastic vines & flowers, thick stucco and a festive palate of colors… so far, potential but business as usual.

The menu was slightly more sparse than usual which is always a good sign to me. I told her why we had sought out her fine establishment and I could sense that our pilgrimage based on endorsement alone ratcheted things up a notch and we were in for a treat.

We all have our favorites that become our yardstick when dining a la Mexicana so, keeping form, Tama ordered mole verde con pollo and I had my standard litmus test; enchilada verde. (to me chicken in the house green sauce will always be the deal breaker…)

If you read the back stories on all the “big boys” like Mario Batali or Anthony Bourdain you soon learn that they slaved for years in fancy pants restaurants where food comes stacked in singularly small but vertical heaps, covered with the likes of black truffle/rare port reductions and flakes of 24 carat gold. When they grow weary of that they inevitably find themselves in the kitchen of some ancient old granny who only uses a handful of the most basic ingredients to create food that awakens taste buds one never knew one possessed.

Such was the case at Casa Rosita’s. Simply made, simply presented and simply the best. I was raving like a lunatic about my enchilada and its stunning sauce to which she replied, “My green sauce is alright but nothing compared to my red or white sauce… I’m known for my white sauce.” Without prompting she provided us with a small dish of each for taste comparison and, by gum, she was right. The white sauce, which in truth is a sort of pale, pale yellow sauce, was a cornucopia of flavors I could not untangle but it was the kind of ambrosia that prompted me to order up a shrimp enchilada swimming in white sauce on the spot. Oh, lordy was it good. Damn.

Of course, the universe being the practical joker that it is, she is thinking of closing up shop in the near future. She has a staff of grandchildren because the children have no interest in the business, 71 years old (30 in this spot…), the economic downturn and a bout of stomach cancer two years ago and she is ready to sit down and relax.

You can buy the restaurant if you want but she said in no uncertain terms that the recipes leave with her. I pled my case for a cookbook idea but I was not the first and she is unmoved by our cries.

At least I was able to eat there that one time.