Seafood in the Desert

The 1980's found me back in Texas after fishing the cold Alaskan waters and a very truncated college career in Oregon.

Bicycles had always held a fascination for me. It was my transportation in Eugene Oregon where I had flunked out of college due to a bad fly fishing addiction. There's no excuses. I was a young, lost veteran straight out of the Vietnam era. We were all lost.

And then I discovered bicycle racing. I discovered I was pretty good at it too. So after a few years I decided it would be pretty groovy to have a bicycle shop. Being a mechanic helped, and soon I was up to my neck in high end bicycles and racers. The mountain bike, ATB was just coming on the scene and of course we had to stock them, ride them. It was a blast.

I had a wide range of clients. Riders from all walks of life. I build a set wheels for the US National team and hobnobbed with the greats of bicycling at the time. I rode with world class riders, neighborhood groups and kids. It was my job. During the winter time, deep south Texas, the Rio Grande Valley, the place we call La Frontera is heavily populated by out of state snowbirds, Winter Texans.

There was an older gentleman named Paul who would frequent my shop. He and his buddies all rode new mountain bikes.  As I remember, Paul was over 80 years old. Paul still rode everywhere, everyday. He would ride over to Mission, my little shop and wile away some time several times a week, drinking coffee and shooting the shit. He really didn't need much from me, he was fond of doing his own work and as a frugal northerner ordered most of his accessories mail order from Bike Nashbar and Performance. We became friends.

As always I'm sure the talk drifted to food. Good food. Paul told me about a place that he and his cronies liked to go eat. It was about 15 miles west in Mexico, across the river from Los Ebanos. Paul talked endlessly about the place. Mexican Seafood. It grabbed my curiosity. Mexican Seafood in Diaz Ordaz? That little dusty farm community? Just seemed incongruous and wonderfully wrong at the same time.

I instantly agreed to check it out.

The day was a windy winter day. A cold front had just ripped through the flat delta that is "the valley" and we were all dressed in winter bicycle stuff. Long jerseys, tights, the works. We peddled hard into the west-northwest wind as the terrain slowly changed to Chihuahuan desert and river terrace hills. Down into Los Ebanos we rolled, pulled into the ferry landing. The hand pulled ferry, the last one left in the world between two countries was our link with the other side, el otro lado. We rode that historic chalan across the Rio Grande river, mounted our bikes on the dusty road leading up into town and arrived at the restaurant near the town square a little while before it opened.

Diaz Ordaz hasn't changed much in the last century, although now it is sadly under control of the cartel and no longer the idyllic Mexican town it once was. We stood there on the dusty street watching as wheelbarrow loads of fresh fish in ice were unloaded into the kitchen. We watched the meson lovingly wipe the tables, counters and surfaces with a bleached white towel again and again until things literally glittered.

Finally with a smile, the proprietor swung the doors open and we filed inside, sat down.  I immediately ordered beer, a Negra Modelo, accompanied by a mug with frost on it.

And then the menu came.

And there they were. Dishes from both coasts of Mexico. Huanchinango Veracruzano to Baja style fish tacos, it was all there. I ordered filetes al mojo de ajo, red snapper filets coated in sweet crispy fried garlic bits and a bowl of Caldo marisco. Seafood soup.

I love seafood of all kinds. In New Orleans I learned to make gumbo, I can do a solid bouillabaisse and bisque's are high on my comfort food list. But there is something about Caldo marisco.  It is the richness of gumbo, the delicacy of bouillabaisse, and the comfort of bisque all rolled in to one. And this place had the definitive Caldo Marisco.

It seems like we lingered and dined far into the cold and windy afternoon. Other dishes were consumed like piernas rana and of course more cold, dark Modelos. The ride back was downwind, mildly drunk. The perfect conclusion to a perfect meal.

Over the years we went to Diaz Ordaz regularly, mostly in the truck, and ate at that restaurant. Later when Dee and I were guiding tours for Sandborn's we would routinely take bus loads of winter Texans there as we taught them about our culture. We were never served anything less than an amazing meal there.

That little place has always served as something of a model in my dream. I wanted to create food for people that would leave them smiling every time. That would leave them scratching their collective heads because of the very nature of what they did, the place they were coming from. The pride they showed in their attention to detail.

Like the flavors of the food that drift through us, the memory of that place haunts me. I see it almost every time I get ready to swing the window of Modern Alchemy open. It is the standard.

That restaurant is probably long gone now. I lost track of Paul and his cronies many years ago. I'm sure they are seeing this from a distant place and I hope they cheer me on for keeping them alive just a little bit longer. Diaz Ordaz is under the control of the cartel, and I'm not sure of the hand pulled ferry still even exists. Things change. But one thing that will never change is the passion that drives all who yearn to excel.