The glossy travel poster on the wall boasts tropical forest, sandy beach and blue ocean. "El Salvador--en el corazon de America" it announces. Below the poster is a 1989 calendar illustrated with a map of Central America.
We are not visiting some covert CIA recruitment office. It is a Saturday, just after noon, and a dining accomplice and I are sitting at a table in Eliana's Restaurant on North 32nd Street in Phoenix. We are eagerly awaiting our first encounter with authentic home cooking from El Salvador.
Since neither of us has been to El Salvador--or anywhere in Central America, for that matter--the travel poster is appropriate. Novices at Salvadorian specialties, we cannot help feeling a little like tourists.
Our host, Eliana's nameless husband, is most helpful. He tirelessly explains each dish to us with genuine, but controlled enthusiasm. We can tell just from his manner that he loves his wife's cooking.
Without too much prompting, we order just about one of everything. (Note: This is not because of a big restaurant critic budget. This is because prices are very inexpensive. Also, we are very hungry. And curious.)
My dining accomplice and I sip on some homemade fruit drinks while we look around. Tamarindo is refreshing with its vague plum flavor. Ensalata brings to mind a "snow"--packed with chopped fresh pineapple, it's not too sweet.
Eliana's is cute and appealing. They've done a fantastic job of cleaning and brightening the narrow, old-fashioned lunch counter space. I should know: I once refused to eat at the grimy Italian-American restaurant which sat here a year ago. Maybe it's the colors, but both my dining accomplice and I feel a sort of Seventies deja vu. The formica tabletops are tangerine. Part of the floor is carpeted in orange, brown and gold stripes; the rest is gold-patterned lineoleum. There is even a harvest gold refrigerator behind the counter. And the green hanging plants are real!
Our host brings two large, resealable containers to our table. Condiments. One is a kim-chee-like shredded salad of cabbage, carrots and onion in a tart, white-hot vinegar. The other is tomato and chili salsa with the pureed texture of tomato sauce--it's subtle, but nice.
There aren't many other customers at Eliana's this morning. Two youths converse in Spanish as they wait for a take-out order. An older gentleman grabs a stool at the counter and orders a hamburger. (There are a few North American items on the menu.) Two small girls, nicely dressed, emerge from the back to eye us every now and then.
Our food begins to arrive from the kitchen. "This will make you strong," our host says when he delivers the sopa de res, a beef soup served on Saturdays. He's right. It's a giant bowl of nourishment--a Salvadorian boiled dinner, complete with beef broth. It has everything: an ear of corn, cabbage, platano, yuca, zucchini and beef shank still on the bone. I like the delicate beef stock and tender, fresh vegetables, but realize that, to truly be enjoyed, sopa de res should be treated like a meal in itself. I, of course, add a drop or two of bottled Tapatio sauce for zest.
The little girls have come out of the kitchen for good. They watch with unveiled curiosity as our tabletop fills with Salvadorian delights.
The tamale is wonderful. Served on a dark-green corn husk, smooth, white masa conceals the salsa-spiced chicken, green beans and potato at its center.
The pupusa is corn masa again--this time flattened into a grilled patty containing beans, cheese and chicharrones. I like that the bottom is crunchy, but overall find the pupusa a bit bland and greasy. A spoonful of salsa helps.
Next out is the yuca frita o sancochada. Yuca (pronounced JOO-ca) is a kind of unsweet sweet potato. Pale golden brown in color, the fried yuca looks like a plate of steak fries. Small morsels of greasy carnitas and sliced cucumber and tomato decorate the plate. Peanut oil is the most pronounced flavor, but it's the yuca's texture I love--it's like a perfectly cooked new potato, firm and smooth.
Even better are the pasteles de carne. Thank goodness they come two per order--this is something I don't want to share. Each pastele is a masa turnover fried to a crunchy golden brown. Spicy and piping hot, their insides are tender, steaming and filled with mashed potato, string bean, carrot and bits of pork. What a great self-contained lunch.
We can overhear lots of Spanish chatter and laughter in the kitchen. A woman we imagine is Eliana herself comes out to the table. "Still missing platanos?" she asks. We nod. She goes back into the kitchen.
I don't think I've eaten enough of the sopa de res to benefit from its strength-giving properties. I certainly don't have the strength to finish it. We are really full, but we do not want to miss platano frito con crema and frijoles.
Having witnessed most of our meal, the little girls abandon us. They leave the restaurant, dolls in hand, with relatives in a silver Toyota.
Our host approaches. He is carrying a plate. "Feel like eating platanos y crema?" We nod yes. With a flourish he places it on the table like some piece de resistance.
Which it just might be.
All along, I imagined we'd be eating a dish prepared from starchy green plaintains--the kind served in Caribbean cooking. I was wrong. Salvadorian cooking uses ripe plaintains, which are sweeter, more fragrant and more like bananas.
What a visual and taste treat! The filleted platano lies on the plate like a grilled fish. It nestles against shallow pools of mauve-colored refried beans and full-bodied white cream. The flavor contrasts are spectacular: sweet platano, smoky puree of beans and homemade sour cream. It is worth the wait. I eat until I cannot take another bite.
We do not order dessert today. But our host is an excellent tour guide. As we pay our modest check, I admire the baked goods in the sparkling glass case. "Try the quesadilla Salvadorena," he insists. "It's like a cheesecake. You can eat it later."
In the name of research, I cannot say no.
Much later, at home, I eat the quesadilla. It's a sweet, cheese-flavored, slightly gritty corn bread--a satisfying snack which would make a fine breakfast food. He's right; I like it.
The way things are going down there, it may be a while before I visit Central America. In the meantime, I intend to become very familiar with Salvadorian cooking. You can find me at Eliana's. I'll be doing research.
One positive by-product of our government's global meddling always has been the introduction of new ethnic cuisines to this country.
I first tried Vietnamese food in 1975, and since then it's become one of my favorites. Here in Phoenix we are especially fortunate to have several restaurants to choose from, like the always superb Tu Do, on North 19th Avenue. Unfortunately for East Valley residents, all the Vietnamese restaurants are on the west side.
As is Hong's Vietnamese Cuisine, which recently opened in a Fry's shopping center on 43rd Avenue and Bell Road. Hong's is the resurrected Vietnam, formerly located in a Van Buren motel and Phoenix's first Vietnamese restaurant.
A dining accomplice and I stop by on a Friday night. The small restaurant is narrow, but brightened with apricot-flowered wallpaper, mirrors and silk plants. Tablecloths cover each table, but missing is the usual array of exotic condiments.
We sit in a small booth and examine the menu. I note that some of my favorite dishes also are missing in action. Where are the delicious rice-noodle soups like the chicken pho ga or the beef pho bac?
Our waitress tells us in her best English that Americans don't like pho. Oh? All I can say is: To know pho is to love pho. "We have on Saturday," she says. "Vietnamese people come then." Hmmm, this omission is a mistake in my book.
We try to order bo nuong vi--a physical dish in which you take grilled slices of rare beef, wrap them in rice paper with cilantro and lettuce and dip them in a spicy fish sauce called nuoc cham--but we're out of luck. The four earringed lumberjacks at another table have just snagged the last order.
Disappointed, we ask our waitress what she would recommend. "Me, like?" she says. Yes, we affirm. What you like.
She points to the banh xeo, a rice-flour crepe. "Many Vietnamese people like," she says. Though I've had it before and thought it only adequate, we decide to give it a try. Our waitress nods vigorously. "Very good," she says. "You like."
She goes off to the kitchen with our order. We listen to the music on the sound system, a kind of Oriental new-age tape. I swear I hear ocean waves and sea gulls.
Uh oh! The man in the Sansabelt pants behind us thinks his food is too spicy. "Drink some water, Henry," his wife suggests. We hear the clink of ice against his teeth, but apparently it's not working. He breathes in and out through his mouth. Finally, Henry gets up to go to the men's room. "I think he's in trouble," my accomplice whispers.
That's curious. There's nothing very spicy in Vietnamese cooking. While nuoc cham does have a small kick to it, its use is optional. So is the red chili sauce sitting on the table--although it definitely should be used with caution. Perhaps Henry had overindulged in it.
Our waitress brings us a celery-dominated version of complimentary egg flower soup. It's no substitute for pho. I'd boost the cilantro and cut the celery in the next batch.
Over at the lumberjacks' table, the boys are having trouble with their beef. Their language is loud and peppered with obscenities. "I don't know how to eat this," says one. "Just open your *-*-*-*ing mouth, put it in and chew," his pal suggests. Why, oh, why couldn't we have ordered first?
The banh xeo arrives. Crisped to a lovely golden brown, the two crepes look like omelettes overflowing with bean sprounts, shrimp and pork. Served with a plate of red leaf lettuce, cilantro, mint, cucumbers and nuoc cham, it is the best thing we order.
Ga xo xa ot (chicken with lemon grass) features dry chicken, slices of onion and no hint of lemon grass anywhere.
The main spice in thit heo kho tieu (spicy pork Vietnamese-style) appears to be ground black pepper. The overcooked pork looks like bacon bits.
We each receive a small plate of crusty rice scraped from the bottom of a rice cooker. (I know, I own one.)
Our meal is redeemed when our chao gai--Vietnamese spring rolls--finally arrive. They are very good, and like our rice-crepe omelette, are served with a plate of assorted greenery.
As we linger over glasses of iced Vietnamese coffee, my dining accomplice swears he hears "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree" on the stereo tape. His mind is playing tricks on him. It's not even close.
Despite our somewhat uneven experience, I think Hong's has potential. My advice to you is: Go early and order the beef. Get it before the earringed lumberjacks do.
Eliana's Restaurant, 2338 North 32nd Street, Phoenix, 957-9442. Hours: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Sunday, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.; Saturday, 6 a.m. to 9 p.m. Closed Monday and Tuesday.
Hong's Vietnamese Cuisine, 4349 West Bell, Glendale, 439-5025. Hours: Monday through Saturday, 10:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. Closed Sunday.
FOOT SOLDIER OF THE PLANET CANNY ENTREPR... v4-18-90
