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Our rooftop dinner overlooking the cathedral wasn't going so well. The meat would have made an excellent pair of sandals, not even remotely bred for chewing, so we jettisoned that effort and headed over to the potato lady in front of the Hidalgo Square, at Angles Flores and Campana. We've been meaning to sample her wares for weeks, and now was an ideal time.
Every night at 6:30 p.m. Soledad and her family arrive with their cooking supplies and set-up on the existing stalls. She spends less than a half hour organizing, lighting the grills, unpacking her flour, avocados, radishes, cucumbers, salsa sauce and is ready to serve customers by 7 p.m. She is the mistress of multi-tasking, the queen of short order chef's, she's poetry in motion.
Two carts are set up - one contains her dough, a wooden press and a flat gas grill. The other cart houses a charcoal grill, which is piled high with baked potatoes. In front of the grill, are all the toppings under the stars. Expect, they aren't really toppings, Soledad embeds them, buries the mixtures deep inside the potatoes or the tortillas.
She mixes the tortilla dough in a large plastic bucket, plops the lump onto an ancient wooden press, pulls the lever down, and the large vise flattens and rounds out the dough into a perfect pancake shape. The raw dough is shifted to the grill. She flips the tortillas again and again. Now they are ready for your toppings - cheese, onions, beans, salsa, cream, butter, or shredded beef. Mums, teenagers, surfers and kids pick and choose, Soledad adds the toppings, rolls up the tortilla, and puts the entire yummy package in tin foil for her customers to take home, or eat at the picnic table beside this happy outdoor kitchen.
I wanted a la papa (potato) and after much deliberation chose cheese, onions, and meat. It took awhile to communicate my wishes with my awful tourists moves - me flapping my wings, not pollo (chicken) not oink-oink, and finally granny says "torro" - ok, so I know it's beef! I DO know the Spanish words for all these foods, but my accent is so appalling it's not ringing any bells with chef Soledad. Granny has arrived a little late - her job is to supervise the dough making. She’s proudly sporting an apron which reads "The Kitchen Bitch". That causes a hilarious response - some English is clearly understood!
Beef is sizzling on the grill, and then shredded within an inch of its life with a large axe Soledad wields with precision. Thought Papa would have that role, but no, that's women's work. The entire time she's flipping tortillas, meat, mashing potatoes, chatting, laughing, and yelling to regular customers who pass by her stall. She knows who likes mucho onions, and who likes mucho butter - but they are dining elsewhere tonight, perhaps the Machado, perhaps on the Malecon, not a problem for her.
She mashes my potato, mushes all the delicious toppings in, pops a tortilla on top, like a tiny hat, to keep it warm, re-packs in tin foil and throws it on the grill so all the flavors can meld together.
I go to pay her – but no, it's the son's job to take the money and we've seen that protocol in most places. One cooks, one waits, one prepares bill, and one handles money. True to form, even in a small, portable street stall.
I return along Heriberto Frias, and resume our dinner on the rooftop. I unwrap the tin foil like a mysterious Christmas present, it's divine, simply a sea of the comfort flavors.
Cost: $3
Experience: Priceless
