Fish Tacos in Paradise (or They Call Me Pablo)
(Published in a North County Coastal rag, circa 2000)
One of the things I like most about taking a vacation is that it reminds me to stop
and smell the roses- a great subject in and of themselves, but that’s for another time. It’s
true that I remember to take a breather once in a while in the midst of a crazy work week
or at the end of a long and stressful commute, it’s just that it’s easier when I have taken a
step (or more) away from my normal life’s duties. I would have to say that of all the
vacations that I go on, I find it even easier to get my life back into perspective when I go
to Baja California. I’m lucky because the person I love to spend my time with the most
feels the same way, and in fact we just got back from four days of camping on the beach
in northern Baja just a couple of days ago, recently enough that I’m still hanging on to
that feeling that only going south of the border can give me.
Everything about Baja California is rich with reminders to stop and take a look
around, from things like the beautiful views along the toll road to the fact that there are
no real expressways within fifty miles of the border. Of course it’s also the dirt-floored
taco stands and other shops that adorn the streets of every town south of Rosarito that ask
me, “Hey Gringo, what’s the rush?” Back in my days at UC Santa Cruz, I would have to
drive back and forth between there and San Diego a few times a year and I never really
took the time to stop at any of those great little mom and pop places that advertise on the
smaller routes. I just kept trucking to the I-5 where I’d occasionally bolt off for just a
minute to pick up a burger and refuel. Of course I was always checking my time- every
minute counts when you’re on the road for 8 hours, you know. Well, times have changed
and I guess that’s because I’ve got Baja in my blood.
On the way South last Friday morning, Jen and I had to stop to pick up some
cervezas , Pacificos if you must know, so we scoured the roadside until we saw “Tacos
Pescados” brush painted onto the tell tale whitewashed plywood sign in between the
yonkerias and panaderias (junk yards and bakeries). I’d already picked up a carne
asada taco at our first attempt for beer (the beer agency only sold Tecate) and Jen doesn’t
eat read meat, and in fact, neither of us were really hungry on account of the ritualistic
VG donut run we make before every camping trip. But Baja is the kind of place where
you want to eat just to enjoy the experience, so at 10:00 AM, the search was on for fish
tacos. Just inside Maneadero, a few kilometers south of Ensenada, we found an agency
that sold Pacifico right next to a fish taco stand. So, after getting our beer from an elderly
gentleman protected behind an iron cage, a bit weird…, we walked over to the taco stand
and ordered up a couple of tacos pescados from the guy behind the counter. We didn’t
get his name (I’ll bet you it wasn’t Rubio), but he was very friendly as he stood tall in his
fresh white apron, wearing a warm smile, speaking slowed-down Spanish for our benefit.
If you learned Espanol in high school like me, you can appreciate that. When we sat
down on the authentic Mexican leather chairs on a raised and shaded patio just a few feet
away from my truck parked on the dirt embankment along Baja’s main highway, I was
amazed at how beautiful the view can be from what looks like a dirty road-side shack
when one is in the right state of mind. In fact, just across the road is what looked like an
extinct volcano with a peak that rose gradually into the distance and whose gentle slopes
were covered with green desert shrubs that looked almost like moss in the distance.
When I was about to tell my girlfriend how glad I was to be sitting there on our little
patio, amidst the hubbub of Maneadero with its huge semi trucks blowing by just meters
away and funny looking mutts running around all over the place, I almost snapped out of
my reverie and I realized that I was getting into the Baja groove. Bienvenidos, amigo!
The tacos themselves were served up shortly and while they didn’t look like much
at first, just a piece of fried fish on two corn tortillas, right under our noses lay a colourful
spread of garnishes that one only dreams of seeing in an American restaurant. Getting
tacos down there is nice, that is if you’re willing to take the “risk” as some gringos
consider eating down there, because those little stands really know how to set a brother
(or sister) up! They provide a slew of salsas- fresca, red, and green; cabbage; guacamole;
limes; onions; the list goes on and on. It was like eating at a buffet of vegetables and
salsas and your buddy in the kitchen was working that day and hooked you up with a fish
taco just for good measure. Even had I been hungry, I would have only been able to eat
one more, what with all of the goodies they supply. As it was, we were stuffed. Still, we
nearly ordered another round just to prolong our enjoyment, but we didn’t want to over
do it (another thing that we Gringos do too well, like working too much). We were just
stopping to well, smell the roses as they say, or in this case, taste the cilantro.
So with full bellies and contented souls, and si, Mexican food can feed your soul,
we proceeded down the road to our next and final stop- a deserted, rust-colored bluff
overlooking the glittering blue Pacific. Of course, we didn’t forget about our friend and
his taco stand, what with the heat of the salsa still tingling in our mouths an hour after we
left, and we promised to stop in on our way back to the States. We did, again without
much of an appetite, but who cares, if all that we do is done in the spirit of sustenance, we
would never stop to enjoy the details that make life so wonderful. (I just hope we don’t
get fat.) Jen and I have already decided to stop there on our next trip down to Baja, and
this time we’re going to make sure that we’ve got plenty of room in our stomachs enjoy
more than just one. And while I’m sure my friend at the taco stand is not named Rubio, I
mean to find out for sure next time. I’ll be sure to tell him my name, which is Pablo,
cause when I’m in Baja, I feel like a different man. If I can learn to hold onto that Baja
feeling, maybe I’ll even change my name someday….
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