Earlier this week, R— and I took an impromptu trip to Las Vegas. Note that I have not called it by the familiar “Vegas,” nor have I made reference to “Vegas, baby,” the reason being that although I love Las Vegas, it isn’t because I think it’s a cool place. Elko is a cool place. Elko boasts character, history, and extraordinary Basque cuisine. Las Vegas has the Osmonds, venereal disease, and people who think Jimmy Buffett merchandise constitutes “formal attire.” It’s essentially a gigantic bug zapper for the loudest, dumbest, drunkest, and worst-dressed that America has to offer—that’s why I love it.
We ate nothing worth noting in Las Vegas. Driving there and back, that’s another story. Welcome to Mojave, California, home of some gnarly Mexican food.
I got a carnitas tostada. I knew that “carnitas” has something to do with pork, but not that it is prepared according to this loving method: “The 6–16 lb (3–7 kg) sections are usually cut down to a workable (6–10 lb) size and seasoned heavily before slow braising or slow roasting, generally in the range of 160 to 180°F for 8 to 12 hours. At this stage the collagen in the meat has broken down sufficiently to allow it to be pulled apart by hand or fork or chopped with a cleaver. . . . [S]ome of the rendered liquid is added back to the pork. Prior to serving, the pork is placed in fairly shallow pans to maximize surface area, then roasted at high (375 to 425°F or 190 to 220°C) heat for a few minutes to produce the famous alternating texture of succulent softness and caramelized crispness.”
I had no idea when I placed my order that “tostada” meant “taco hat.” (Well, it doesn’t, really.) I expected something taco-like, since 90 percent of the choices on a Mexican menu—tacos, burritos, enchiladas, gorditas, and so forth—are more or less the same damn thing. The taco hat was a nice change of pace. R— had the enchilada, which wasn’t, but I bet it tasted good anyway.
I give Roberto’s high marks for: deliciousness of food; tackiness of décor, which consisted primarily of inflatable Corona bottles; solicitousness of waiter, who was also the greeter and chef. I give Roberto’s low marks for: what happened to my insides after I ate at Roberto’s. I can’t say the sad state of the men’s room didn’t give me fair warning, though.
The drive back from Las Vegas (like how I just casually redacted that whole part?) afforded a tremendous discovery: the Astro Burger of Boron, California. Boron proper is halfway between Mojave and Barstow; if I’m not mistaken, the Astro Burger is, despite its Boron address, in Kramer Junction. (Out in the desert the definition of “town” becomes pretty ambiguous.) In any case, driving west, take a right off 58 onto 395 and you’ll see the signs.
I wasn’t in the market for a burger, Astro or otherwise. With apologies to Return of the Living Dead Part Two, I wanted some spicy brains.
I’m disappointed to discover, days after the fact, that I probably didn’t get my wish. “Cabeza” tacos contain some combination of the cheeks, lips, tongues, and ears of the cow. “Lengua” tacos are just tongues. (You can see one of each below.) But it seems that “sesos,” or brains, are a separate category.
My lengua taco is the one on the left. The meat tastes something like braised oxtail, though a bit less tender. The cabeza meat, however, tastes like Kleenex® soaked in grease, and not in the good way. R—’s expression changed drastically with the first bite (see below). In fairness, he did think he was eating brains.
We’ll get it right next time, meng.