A Taco Tragedy
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Copenhagen, getting familiar with spandauer and tebirkes and (my favorite) kardemomme snurrer.
A Taco Tragedy
I have finally—after years of research—answered the question that has plagued us all.
Where in the world should we eat Mexican food, if we’re not in Mexico or the US? [What—this doesn’t keep you up at night? Do your 4am fantasies not include guacamole and tamales? Just me?]
And the answer is … drumroll please … nowhere.
Just don’t bother.
A quest that began years ago during an untasty nomad meetup at a Mexican restaurant in Bangkok culminated last Saturday in Copenhagen.
I was 47 when we left the US. I had spent my life until that point obsessing over food. I cooked food, I ate food, I talked about food, I consumed books about food. I had tasted some amazing things, but I had a hunch that some things would be better in the place they came from.
I was right. Hummus in the Tahini Zone is so creamy, so much better than what you get in an American supermarket that I can’t even recognize that stuff as hummus.
Vietnamese food in Vietnam is a work of art. The herbs on the table, every table, are so fresh you can’t believe they’re not still growing. Even back when I had a garden and grew my own herbs, they weren’t that beautiful.
Thai food outside of Thailand is insipid—watered-down, oversweetened, underspiced.
The Mexican restaurant we went to last weekend in Copenhagen is supposed to be one of the world’s best. The chef was a Noma star; when she went out on her own, cooking the food of her homeland, the food world buzzed. It’s a destination restaurant. I booked our table as soon as reservations for that date opened.
Lee was skeptical. Mexican in Copenhagen? But I am stubborn, and nothing if not optimistic.
It was … fine. The guacamole was fine. The chips were thin and crispy and tasted of nixtamalized corn, as they should, but there weren’t enough of them. And they were unsalted. The chilaquiles were just like I would have made them, so they were fine, but not special. Lee had cochinita pibil tacos. Again, they were fine, but nothing to write home about.
The problem is complex, and I don’t know enough to be able to pinpoint one cause. Is the food toned down for the market here? Do Mexican ingredients not import well? Is it difficult to teach Danish kitchen staff the nuances of Mexican flavors? Or is this just a lack of that ineffable something the French call terroir?
That evening, Lee was watching an episode of The Bear, and the chef of the restaurant we had just eaten in made a cameo appearance.
He was amused. So I guess that place is legitimately famous.
Well, yes. I wasn’t making it up. It is actually considered to be an amazing, world-class Mexican restaurant, all the more remarkable for being in Copenhagen, where the local flavors are about as polar opposite of Mexican flavors as they could be.
To be fair, we were there for lunch, which is a pared-down menu, and only served on the weekend. We didn’t go for the whole tasting menu experience, because we don’t generally enjoy such long, big meals. We had the casual Saturday brunch version. Was it the best they can do? Probably not.
Price tag: $92.25.
So here’s my pro tip: if you’re reading this in North America, you have better Mexican food at your local taqueria. Come to Copenhagen for the pastries, not the chilaquiles.
Some things are better left uneaten.
Take care,
Lisa
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