Just wanted to let everyone now that a new version of my iPhone app, Cool Cancun & Isla Mujeres is out. And it should now really be titled Cool Cancun & Isla Mujeres & Puerto Morelos–but that’s just a little unwieldy, no? I added 20 new listings for my favorite under-the-radar beach town, which is only about 20 minutes south of Cancun Airport–so an easy day-trip, or a great destination on its own. The price is still a bargain at $1.99–spread the word to anyone who’s headed down that way for spring break or beyond.
And I just got a huge box of the brand new Moon New Mexico guide! They look great, if I do say so. They have more color photos, and overall, I think the book is just a bit tighter all around. I found some really excellent restaurants, and got out to some even farther corners of the Land of Enchantment. And, as usual, the update website is there as backup–I’ve already got one small change posted, in fact. (Such is a guidebook writer’s life…)
Watch this space for a book giveaway later this week!
I already posted this on Facebook and Twitter, but here you go again, in case you missed it: my “haul video” from the Gallup flea market. (If you have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s a sensible NPR person explaining it.)
OMG, the shopping was totes guh-reat in New Mexico! I am so happy to make my voice all squealy for you, my loyal readers. It’s the least I can do, right?
But seriously, I do think all the native foodstuffs on offer were fascinating: sumac, cota, blue corn flour, plenty more mutton…oh, and oodles of sno-cones.
Here are a couple more pics from the flea market, so you can get the full vibe:
The flea market, if you happen to be out that way, is on North 9th Street in Gallup every Saturday, starting around 10am or so.
I ate a lot of good stuff. There’s a Flickr set here, showcasing my post-trip belly.
Highlights included:
*Doughnut from a bakery on 2nd Street in Raton, NM
It had all the crunch of a good cake doughnut, and all the airiness of a perfect yeast one. The bakery is this very bare-bones operation–a huge room with about three tables, no decoration, and a quite old, hunched-over woman shuffling slowly from table to cash register and back. The kind of service where you just stand there and wait to be acknowledged, and she finally says, after she’s completed every aspect of the current task, “OK, who’s next?”
*Roast mutton on frybread in Crownpoint, NM
Beverly and I went to the Navajo rug auction in Crownpoint, which happens once a month or so. It takes place in the elementary school gym, and a few food vendors set up out in the parking lot. Only one had the roast mutton; others just had Navajo tacos (frybread with all the taco filling stuff on top). This created an awkward situation, because early on, I’d chatted with one girl while buying a drink and said, “Oh, I’ll be back for food.” And when I came back, I totally bypassed her and went for the mutton vendor, and sure enough, she gave me the evil eye.
But it was worth it. That there’s some locavore eating, man. Mixed in with the charred slab of lamb was a slick roasted green chile, the perfect amount of heat. It was all a little hard to deal with because there were so many bones, but we managed. I think Beverly dubbed it a Navajo gyro in the end.
*Fried chicken with red chile at Halona Plaza, Zuni Pueblo
I think I’ve raved about this particular chicken before. What’s better than fried chicken? Fried chicken with red chile on the side, of course. Eaten in the back of a grocery store, and washed down with a fountain Coke, ideally after having spent a long day in a hot car. And good thing it’s good–it’s nearly the only thing to eat in Zuni.
Just when my trip was seeming like slightly ahead of schedule, I figured I’d add some tension by driving all the way down to Silver City for dinner. When I was there in April, I had just missed eating dinner at the Curious Kumquat, and I was totally staggered by Chef Rob’s ideas for food. So I grabbed Beverly, and off we drove. And drove. And drove. That town is waaaaay down there, man.
We rolled in just around dinnertime, and set to eating. Rob basically gives a list of four or five entrees, and then builds a tasting menu around each one. It’s an insane amount of work, as each little taste for each entree is different. I immediately opted for the vegetarian Indian mix (again, still trying to counteract my heavy meat intake). One of the early courses was this little deep-fried rice ball, filled with a little nugget of cheese. Like arancini gone Indian. I mean, I’m sure there’s actually an Indian treat like this, but that’s what’s so great about it–eating this made me think across all ethnic boundaries and ponder rice balls the world over. And its little fuzz of sprouts on top was just adorable. And it was perfectly spicy. And I had little hits of spices popping off in my mouth for many minutes after, as I sat there grinning.
We ended the meal with something else brilliant, which I have no picture for: ice cream made of Samuel Smith cherry ale. Rob explained that he hadn’t boiled down the beer, like so many recipes for beer ice cream tell you (yeah, all those recipes–I’m clearly not reading the right books), so it wasn’t sweet or too intense–just nutty and a little hit of cherry.
Needless to say, I highly recommend the drive to Silver City–from wherever you are.
*White port with tonic water and lime at Jennifer James 101 in Albuquerque.
We ate many other delicious things, but this drink was so refreshing and lovely. Writing this in muggy New York heat, I could definitely use one now…
Haven’t gone to look at the Flickr pics yet? You really should. It’s not often I show you my stomach.
I drove around in the middle of nowhere for quite some time: Chama, Tierra Amarilla, Cimarron, Clayton, Springer, Wagon Mound.
In those places, menus say “Eggs” and “Steak” and “Side of bacon.” It’s pretty straightforward.
So by the time I rolled back into fancy-pants New Mexico, where they use figurative speech and throw their adjectives all over the place, I felt like my critical-reading skills had withered away to nothing.
At a great cafe near the Pecos (La Risa), I read the whole menu and fixated on the “Grilled cheese with pinon pesto.” Ooh, clever! I thought–what a great adaptation to local ingredients.
Only much later, after my grilled cheese with perfectly normal pesto, did I remember that, uh, yeah, pesto always has pine nuts in it.
The next day, I was reading the menu at La Casa Sena. Oooh, halibut ceviche! I thought. I ordered it, and gagged. Murky, dirt-y fish. The guy next to me asked, “How is that, anyway?”
I said, “Honestly, it’s nasty–it’s got that dirt taste.”
“Yeah, I thought that was a weird choice for ceviche, halibut being a bottom-feeder and all.”
Argh! I knew that! It had just been erased from my brain by driving a thousand miles through landlocked country. The guy got up and waltzed away, looking smug.
Later that same day, after my nasty ceviche, I wandered over to the Rooftop Cantina, the place upstairs from the Coyote Cafe. I already knew the Coyote Cafe was a total disaster. But I’d heard the cantina had less ambitious food that hit the mark more often.
I flipped open the menu, gave it a quick glance, and ordered the vegetarian tacos, because I’d been eating a lot of “Steak” and “Eggs” and needed some greenery. I saw something about “olive-oil-macerated tomatoes,” which really makes no sense at all, but ignored it. (Maceration usually implies making a texture change by soaking something, and really, there’s no way you can change a tomato’s texture by soaking it in oil.)
My plate came, and it was hideous.
I swear it had been beamed straight from Wolfgang Puck circa 1988. Not only were those “oil-macerated tomatoes” really sun-dried tomatoes, but they were swimming in pesto dressing. There was some kind of deep-fried something on top of all the lettuce, and two slabs of mozzarella on either side. My god–how many food cliches can they pile on one plate?! Oh, and there was some squishy flatbread stuff, which I guess was supposed to be the tortilla part of my “taco.”
I felt dumb for falling for ridiculous menu-speak, and letting my craving for vegetables get in the way of sensible ordering. After that, believe you me, I eyeballed my menus very carefully, mentally combining all the described ingredients to ensure they added up to something that would not be the festering fever dream of a 1980s chef-to-the-stars.
After that, the eating got much better. More on that in the next post…
B-Square Ranch is weird. In a good way. But really weird. The place is up near Farmington, New Mexico, and it’s got two museums on it – ”museums” being a slightly grand term for what is really just two collections amassed by what appear to be obsessive people. The elder Bolack, Tom, was lieutenant governor for a while, and then took over as governor for a couple of months; he died in 1998. The younger Bolack, Tommy, shoots off fireworks and does a radio show with his country-music 45s every Sunday, 4-7pm, on the local radio station.
I think I saw Bolack the Younger snoozing in a chair in the museum when I first showed up, which somehow seemed fitting, what with all the peacocks strutting around and cawing. Something about the sound of peacocks just says “dissipation in progress.”
So, after I went to the bathroom, which had a big B-Square Ranch logo in the tile on the wall, I set out for the guided tour of the Electromechanical Museum, where “electromechanical” covered everything from vintage farm equipment to one of Elvis’s Cadillacs to tape carts from local radio stations. Oh, and some syrup left over from the drive-in movie theater after it closed.
And everything is in massive amounts.
Insulators:
Electric meters:
Power plant control boards:
Then I got into the elder Bolack’s museum, which is basically every hunting trophy he ever scored. Photos cannot convey how completely boggling it is.
See more photos here, in my Flickr set. If you’re up that way, you should go–although you might come out feeling a little crazy yourself. Entrance is free, but you need to call ahead to reserve a spot on a tour. Info is here.
The first place I headed on my trip was Shiprock, New Mexico. Not sure why–but I just feel better if I go the farthest-away places first, and get them out of the way. Long ago, I’d heard there was mutton stew on the menu at the KFC. When I called to confirm, the guy who answered the phone said, “Hell yeah man, we got it” in a very New Mexican accent. That proud response has echoed in my head ever since, so of course I stopped at the KFC first thing.
The KFC has been spruced up and moved since I was there last. It’s about the only thing that has been spruced up and moved.
I walked in and stood in line. I was the only non-Navajo in the place. And I was the only person to order the Navajo food on the menu: mutton stew with a side of frybread.
While I was waiting, I managed to spill my ice tea all over, and got to chatting with the woman who mopped it up. After I sat down with my stew, Linda came out on her break and said, “Can I eat with you?”
So nice! This never happens to me, the lonesome travel writer. Linda and I chatted about Shiprock–no new businesses, she said, except…guess what it is? I could not even begin to imagine what Shiprock might already have too many of. Give up?
A laundromat. Apparently, they need more laundromats in Shiprock like they need holes in their head, but here’s a new one opening up.
I asked her about the air pollution–it seemed better since the last time I was here, I said. Maybe the regulations on the coal plant made a difference? She said she hadn’t noticed a thing, but admitted, “Maybe I’m just too rezzed out, you know?”
All the while, I was eating my stew. It was terrible.
Completely bland, with “baby” carrots bobbing in the watery broth, and pieces of meat that were all mysterious gristle. I eyed Linda’s fried chicken with envy.
Still, I left that late lunch so happy, so nourished. A stranger had chatted me up, laughed at me (for ordering the “Navajo stew”) and with me, and given me advice (stew across street is better, but it’s best at the flea market, where you can sit in the air and the dust). I told Linda I’d keep an eye out for her at the new laundromat, and drove off to see what they’d done with Four Corners, now that it has moved.
Much later in the trip, I ate some more mutton stew, at the Pueblo Harvest Cafe in the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center in Albuquerque. The place has been given a makeover and now it looks like pretty much any casual restaurant in a pueblo casino (even though there’s not a casino here), and the menu is all over the place. But the mutton stew was really good. Thick and lamby, with great bread on the side. I wish I’d ordered a bowl, not just a cup.
But I ate it all alone.
I can’t bring myself to axe the KFC from the guidebook, even though it’s a terrible meal–who knows what other adventures readers might have when they stop in? Likewise, I can’t get really feverishly excited about the Pueblo Harvest Cafe, but maybe if I’d been sharing the meal with someone…
This is a prime example of the guidebook writer’s dilemma–recommend fundamental quality, or experience? I wrote about this same problem a few years ago, using some examples closer to home in Astoria, Queens. I guess it’s just a lesson I have to keep learning…
All that earlier rambling about vintage hotels was really leading up to my New Mexico trip: I had been thinking you couldn’t get a proper vintage hotel in the United States. Too much newness and constant improvement here. Things aren’t allowed to slip into dusty grandeur and stay there–someone always has to come along and point and shout and say, “Golly, look at my old-timey place, with Route 66 upholstery on the chairs!”
But I did find a place. It’s really a vintage motel. It’s the Budget Host Melody Lane in Raton, NM. It’s not dripping with Americana, though it does have a nice (but nonworking) neon sign out front. It’s just an impeccably kept up motor court, replete with wood paneling, even on the oh-so-midcentury slanted ceilings.
And it has in-room steam saunas (brand name: Thermasol Suites). I can’t tell you how splendid this is. Whenever I stay at a fancy hotel with a spa, I tell myself I’m going to go use the sauna, and if I actually do, it turns out to be this dreary little room off the side of the ladies’ dressing room, and it’s never open when you want, and so on. But…this was in my room! I could saunify, and roll straight into bed! I could roll out of bed, and straight into the sauna!
The owners say they keep the Thermasol Suites running with spare parts they buy on the Internet, thank goodness. They say the Thermasol Suites were not original to the motel, but probably added sometime in the 1970s. They say the place is so clean because the woman used to be a nun. I say it’s the most fabulous night’s rest I’ve had in recent years, and it cost me less than $60. That’s cheaper than going to a day spa.
And it left me with the exact same glowing love of the past that I’ve gotten at the best vintage hotels in foreign countries. I never thought I’d say it, but I can’t wait to go back to Raton.
In other hotel news from New Mexico, I do have to give credit to El Rancho in Gallup, NM. It’s not really proper “vintage hotel” caliber because it is too self-conscious about being a tourist attraction. But it’s well kept up and not flashy. In the lobby, Beverly and I ogled furniture made out of cattle horns and signed photos of stars we’d never heard of, then slept soundly in our motel room for $54.
And how can you not love a sign like this?
Yup: that says “Charm of yesterday, convenience of tomorrow.” (Except the lobby wi-fi wasn’t working in the morning, and we heard a girl say, “Convenience of tomorrow, my ass.”)
The wild West of yore is all about trains and cows and gunslingers and dudes in hats. Today, cattle still roam the range in New Mexico, and folks wear pistols on their hips and hats indoors. But the trains have, for the most part, gone.
Sure, there’s the venerable Super Chief, Amtrak’s service that plods across the desert, often running eight hours late by the time it hits Los Angeles (I know from personal experience), and there’s the scenic Cumbres & Toltec steam train up in Chama.
But for real getting around? People use cars, just like everywhere else in the American West.
This makes me sad, because I am a bit of a train geek. Not a mouth-breathing, clipboard-toting railfan, but someone who really enjoys a good train ride. No bickering with the navigator, no squinting at traffic signs—just pure relaxation as the scenery whisks by. I’ve ridden trains (often with my more-railfannier-than-I-but-still-not-foaming-he-would-like-me-to-assure-you husband) everywhere possible—even in Australia, which made Australians laugh.
This is all leading up to the Rail Runner, Albuquerque’s commuter train. It started service in the ABQ area in 2007, and there was talk of extending to Santa Fe. Miraculously, before I even had time to get cynical about it, the service was running, as of December 2008.
I admit, I got a little teary-eyed watching this video:
So I finally got around to riding the thing on this trip. You’d think it might not be all that exciting—it’s just an hour and a half, and it makes the same trip I’ve made at least a thousand times in my life.
But it was even better! First, just saying the words, “Let’s get the 4:13 train,” while sitting at my mom’s kitchen table outside Albuquerque, was such an amazing novelty.
Then, also, the idea of anyone in New Mexico following a real schedule—also delightfully novel.
On the train, for the first time in my life in Albuquerque, I got to peer into people’s backyards. I saw real, live hobos hunkered down by the freight tracks. (I guessed they were pros, because they didn’t wave at the train, unlike the various regular guys just sitting and drinking by the tracks.) We zipped past bizarre arrangements of industrial scrap in giant junkyards.
So Albuquerque isn’t sounding so scenic.
But after just a little bit, we were out in the back of beyond—not even a road to be seen. At this point, the train conductor advised us not to take photos, at the request of residents in the pueblo lands we were passing through. I wonder where else train passengers are banned from taking photos, and not for security reasons?
This photo was taken before the ban, I swear (and features my dad off to the right):
The whole area around the last stop in Santa Fe has been swankily redone—what used to be a vast scrubby open space by the tracks is now parkland, and there are galleries and train-station-themed coffee bars. It’s a whole new side of Santa Fe, one not cloaked in faux adobe finish, and if I’d come by car, it would seem insignificant. Getting off at the station, it seemed like the center of the world.
We walked back down the tracks to dinner, stuffed ourselves with enchiladas (at La Choza), and walked over to the plaza for dessert (at the Haagen-Dazs place, because everywhere else was closed). Just like in a regular city! (Except for the places being closed.)
On the trip up, we chatted with some great people—a younger guy who managed a band and worked on a Tennessee shortline, along with his friend, who’d never been on a train (like most New Mexicans probably, he asked, “Why does it have to follow a schedule? Why can’t it just go?”).
There was also a couple who were reading my guidebook!
The landscape of New Mexico is forever changed. Thanks, Rail Runner!
Today’s the last day for a chance to win free copies of my Santa Fe guidebook–enter here.
I admit, I was instilled with some serious anti-Texan prejudices as a child. The flatlanders came to New Mexico to ski (“If God had meant for Texans to ski,” went one typical grumble, “He would’ve given them their own mountains”). They set up resort enclaves in Ruidoso and Red River, and decorated them with chainsaw-carved bear statues. They came to Santa Fe to swan around saying, “How kaaaay-uuuute!” about everything, and then buying it.
But since I’ve grown up, I’ve met some perfectly excellent Texans, who have much better taste, and realized my attitude was probably not productive. Besides, now New Mexicans have moved on to hating Californians.
So now when I go to southeastern New Mexico, where the state line is just a formality, it’s kind of cool—like two vacations in one.
You get your green chile (admittedly, often mixed with cream-of-mushroom soup, which gives me the heebie-jeebies), but you can also get your barbecue. I ate some beautiful brisket in Carlsbad at Danny’s BBQ—the smoke ring was lurid, and the flavor was so good I didn’t even bother with sauce. Here’s my dad’s pork, which came in a portion bigger than his head, and we had to stuff it into sandwiches the next day.
I seem to have lost my photo of that (or perhaps I never took it–the beauty is just seared in my brain), so in lieu of that, here’s the menu board at Pat’s Twin Cronnie in Portales, NM, where fad diets are not catered to:
I didn’t realize how deep the Texan strain went until this visit, when I noticed the much-fetishized Blue Bell ice cream in grocery stores in Tularosa and Artesia. I imagine the Dr. Pepper down in those parts is also fresher.
I also saw that this doughnut shop in Hobbs had kolaches on the menu:
Unfortunately, the doughnut shop was closed by the time I rolled up. Actually, maybe for the best—if the paint job outside was any indication, it was the kind of place where I wouldn’t be able to decide what to order.
Another food item I associate with Texas is pecans. But they’ve got pecan trees all around Tularosa (and yummy pistachios!). And just south of Las Cruces is Stahmann Farms, the largest privately owned pecan orchard in the United States. Take that, Texas!
This week, I’m giving away copies of my Santa Fe guidebook–go here to enter!
Southern New Mexico is a little alien to me because they do weird things with their chile down there, and they engage in businesses that you don’t see that much of up north, such as oil drilling, UFO spotting and cattle ranching. I was driving around Roswell, headquarters of “alien” in southern NM, when I saw the sign: Sale Barn Cafe.
I pulled in, as it’s well known that cafes near livestock auctions are good. Or at least it seems like they should be—even though of course they are not slaughtering the cow right out back, like you imagine.
The parking lot was packed, but it didn’t occur to me there was an auction in session until after I’d wandered through the cafe, cautiously nosed into the main building itself, perused the ads for ranch horses, and then heard the buzz of activity through the swinging doors behind me.
I stepped through and found myself in a short concrete hall leading up to the front, below the rings of seats. I stood there a bit, trying to decide whether I was welcome or not. When it became clear that the place was not going to fall silent, and the entire crowd of cowboy-hatted men was not going to swivel around to stare at me, I sidled in and took a seat, all casual-like. After a while, I took a little sound recording of the auction:
And after a bit more, I started taking some photos. When I eventually moved up in the bleachers for a better vantage point, a handsome younger rancher leaned over and said, “Hey, you’re one of those animal-rights people, aren’t you?” Best pickup line ever.
I said no, I wasn’t, but I was curious about where my meat came from. He went on to explain the whole system—how these cattle weren’t being sold for slaughter, but between ranchers to round out their herds. Ranchers running short of grass were selling extra head to those whose sections were just now getting green. He clued me in to the various codes, signals and marks on the cattle—it felt a lot like learning the basics of a new sport.
He also explained, as a side note, that they used to auction horses for slaughter here, but that got banned—and as a result, now New Mexico is infested with horses that have been set loose because their owners couldn’t afford to keep them and had no other way to get rid of them. I’d always suspected there was another side to the ‘protect the wild horses’ story, but had never heard it.
As I left, I asked the rancher for his name or a card. But he politely declined. He still thought I was one of those animal-rights people after all.
I’m running a contest all this week, for free copies of my Santa Fe guidebook–enter here.
Just wanted to let everyone now that a new version of my iPhone app, Cool Cancun & Isla Mujeres is out. And it should now really be titled Cool Cancun & Isla Mujeres & Puerto Morelos–but that’s just a little unwieldy, no? I added 20 new listings for my favorite under-the-radar beach town, which is only about 20 minutes south of Cancun Airport–so an easy day-trip, or a great destination on its own. The price is still a bargain at $1.99–spread the word to anyone who’s headed down that way for spring break or beyond.
And I just got a huge box of the brand new Moon New Mexico guide! They look great, if I do say so. They have more color photos, and overall, I think the book is just a bit tighter all around. I found some really excellent restaurants, and got out to some even farther corners of the Land of Enchantment. And, as usual, the update website is there as backup–I’ve already got one small change posted, in fact. (Such is a guidebook writer’s life…)
