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Cheese and sour cream
Christopher Balla · 24 August 2007

American symbols associated with the mythology of the cuisines of Mexico are as numerous as they are deprived of meaning (a ringing taco “bell” like a macostized American Indian); they are situated almost entirely within the realm of fast-food culture — bits of harmless daily detritus, a semiotics qua advertisement — and while their generative meaning is drawn from a notably colorful Latin American society, whatever richness is drained, made bland, and spread thin, through a campaign of fetishization. This is clearly a social problem, but the echoes of Mexico heard in the greater part of this nation are meaningless with their distance. In Texas however, brought up against the border, the problem is far from dissolved. Mexican food as a flat promotional commodity exists, inevitably (as it does practically everywhere else), but given the relative proximity of Mexico — and actual Mexicans — the use and misuse of those Mexicans and their cuisine as a pleasing and profitable symbol of enjoyment becomes an uncomfortable regional non sequitur: a daily and unerringly confrontational reminder of unresolved racial prejudice and unhealthy and unjustified commercial activity. Furthermore, the aforementioned nearness of Texas to Mexico — and the inevitable attitude of Texans (or Americans?) to borrow, reform, and in turn make “bigger” and “better” — is a direct cause, amplified by proximity, of a rather dangerous and disgusting appropriation of a humble culture within the state: Tex-Mex. As the Mexican and his food is fetishized only to the point of ridiculousness in more remote parts of our nation, the act is diffused and altogether ancillary, but when this fetishization is realized within our own state lines, and in plain view of the object of the fetish, a far more grievous act takes place.

These culinary issues, indeed not as simple as we’d like, are in actuality positioned under the umbrella of an overarching social history (one clearly delineated by class structure and methods of consumption). A cartography of the mobility of Mexican food-culture in Texas might be mapped in tandem with the social diaspora of population from urbanity to suburbia. Within primary Mexican-culture strongholds — namely (in order of concentration) San Antonio, Houston, Dallas, Austin — there exist, within clearly-delineated “barrios” (typically within industrial and low-income regions), a multitude of eating establishments which stand for both newly-arrived Latinos and generationally-established persons as a natural and wholly traditional option (in essence, in that there is no coercion within these establishments — and by this I mean an situational “front” intended to entice the user with notions of “otherness”, which I will return to — they are delivered to the prospective diner “as is”). They act, as it were, as surrogate at-home kitchens for the Latino user. A converse, and endlessly Caucasian, reality exists northward: extracted from the fluid Mexican influence of the south, the oppressive milieu of suburban communities of North Texas exhibits an alternate culinary phenomenon, one of generalized misunderstanding and misuse. Traveling upwards along Interstate 35 (and then along its tendrils through the Dallas suburbs) there exist a number of high-profile chain restaurants, along with local independent establishments of similar disposition that are both immensely popular and incredibly bad. It should be noted that while these locations are the primary source of Mexican food in the area, there is always to be found an “actual” Mexican food-source within reasonably short distance, catering for the usual Latino communities found in these large suburban regions.

As an example, an elegy for the culinary environment of Denton (small, but immersed in suburbs, thirty miles from Dallas), where my alma mater is situated. There, two blocks away from one of the best and most northerly taquerias I have experienced is a large Tex-Mex emporium, unerringly pink and baby-blue, titled El Guapo’s. El Guapo’s has installed next to the outdoor loudspeakers which blast popular tejano a rather complex ventilation system which fills the neighboring atmosphere with the smell of freshly-cooked tortillas. The menu at El Guapo’s is but a faint reminder of the traditional cuisine of Mexico, and features an expected series of flavors, textures, smells and appearances that construct the commonly-conceived idea of Tex-Mex; tortillas are thick, bready, heavy; sauces similarly weighty, and bland. Cheese and sour cream are ubiquitous. On the overpainted teal walls of the restaurant are dramatized and Hispanicized dolls, oversaturated ponchos (often with simulated wear), and a confusing array of cheap Central American trinkets symbolically detatched from their cultures, intended to display an all-encompassing theme of “Mexicanness”.

Latinos do not go to El Guapo’s. Actually I believe that Latinos rarely go out for dinner in Denton. Instead they purchase breakfast and lunch: the humble taco for $1.25 at Esther’s Panaderia y Taqueria on neighboring Elm Street. It is a traditional example of the humble bakery and taco stand. The interior is small; seating is limited to one Formica booth (a counter against the street-facing window is there for standing patrons); a wall of beverages and an opposing wall of baked goods conjoin the space, whose borders are completed by the kitchen to the back. I have not met Esther but if she exists (and I certainly hope she does), I can imagine she runs her kitchen with far more grace and ease than whoever mans the tortilla-presses over at El Guapo’s. Her flour tortillas (though you cannot smell them as you exit your car) are the real thing; thin and pliable, with the lipidic comfort of lard. When graced with ingredients — usually, braised or charred pork or beef, onion, and cilantro — they lose the reality of carbohydrates; they function as you might expect in more expertly subtle cuisines as a culinary canvas. Pastries and breads are served with similar frequency to savory items and with equal, humble care.

I’d like to think of these culinary performances by these two establishments as “real” and “illusionary”. This polarization exhibits a social problem in itself: with Esther’s — reality, humility, truth, honesty; El Guapo’s — loudness, amplification, Caucasian appropriation. The “real” (and beyond the example of Esther’s, perhaps the cart, the semimobile stand, the bakery, or restaurant) ward off the suspicious or devoutly-American but attract beyond their Latino patronage the curious, frugal or hopefully-hip (e.g. those craving a thoroughly “ethnic” experience). With the large-market chain restaurant the user demands a cleansed experience: all flair (mariachis, massive frozen margaritas, and sizzling platters) with no actual Mexican substance; in Texas this sort of amplification is a blatantly home-grown subversion of sociocultural fact. But somewhere between the two given examples lies the problem: the curiosity in Mexican cuisine by non-Mexican patrons is fetishized just the same as those swallowing their cheesy nacho platters. Compared to other cultural appropriations across our nation such actions are doubly noxious with Tex-Mex; here is the Texan, coveting the native cuisine of his neighbor to the south, and by consequence of ego rudely appropriating it, bleaching it white and stripping it of both regional and culinary flavor.

Vicious observations on my part; and still, my consternation fails me. Sometimes, chips and queso are the most spectacular thing, especially with seasoned ground beef and guacamole mixed in¹.

¹ Also known as “Bob Armstrong Dip”.

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