The Quest for the Sacred Burrito

Four days ago, an acquaintance on a discussion list posted remarks about a transcendent burrito, the kind of life-changing meal that causes one to stand up and scream “I’ve seen the light!” to a crowd of confused onlookers. The burrito was from the new Calexico Cart on 25th and Park, and mere mention of it ignited a passionate conversation from those who had tasted the wares of the original on Prince and Wooster. These disciples of the burrito raved about an essential ingredient, which they had dubbed Chipotle Crack Sauce. Well, as luck would have it, this new cart was located mere blocks from my office. If you haven’t noticed, I like food. Therefore, I needed to taste of this Holy Grail of Mexican street grub.

A couple of hours after reading the email, I dashed out the office door for this mythical land of burrito manna, but when I arrived on the spot, there was no burrito cart to be found. I stormed up and down Park Avenue, calling out, “Where are you, rice and beans? Here Chipotle Crack Sauce!” Alas, I didn’t get anything aside from strange looks, so I settled for a boring old lamb platter from Raffiqui, a chain of street vendors.

After politely voicing my displeasure with the situation to the discussion list, it was suggested that I try an earlier time. No problem. On Wednesday, I went to the magic spot again, this time at 12:30, but yet again there was no magic cart. However, I did find a place called Latin Thing (I’m not kidding-— that really is the name of it) on Lexington, and they did serve a fine pressed Cuban-style sandwich with braised beef, peppers, onions, Monterey Jack cheese, and spicy chipotle sauce (sans crack). As I did on the day before, I calmly informed the list of my frustration with this new vendor’s curious business practices. Apparently, I was not the only one who felt this way, and a couple of us formed a secret Burrito Watch Network, an alliance of foodies who would use a phone chain to inform one another if the cart ever appeared again. It was never said, but it was implied that if the cart tried to leave early, members of the BWN would lay down and block its path until all BWN members were served.

Does this seem like it was a lot of effort for one burrito? Absolutely. No one should have to jump through this many hoops in order to buy a rollup of beans, cheese, salsa, and meat.

Nevertheless, word broke out early yesterday that the cart was in its place, so a swarm of people began migrating to the neighborhood with record speed, me chiefly among them. I finally saw the cart and wondered why it was sponsored by a beer company when the cart couldn’t sell beer:



Then I placed my order and was told there would be a 10 minute wait. Fine. You can’t rush greatness.

As I waited, a friend appeared behind me. He had traveled from midtown on his lunchbreak. It was now clear that the hype had gotten out of control.

The two of us grabbed our burritos (which both arrived in less than 10 minutes) and we walked over to Madison Square Park to eat.

For starters, one of these burritos is a hearty meal. I am a man, and I eat man-sized portions. No, scratch that. I eat American man-sized portions. I cannot nor do I ever want to fit into those annoyingly skinny H&M jeans that are popular with the hipsters, models, and Heroin addicts. They won’t allow me into Williamsburg because my waist is larger than 27 inches. (Literally, a ironically leather-clad midget henchman steps onto the G-train with a tape measure, and he will not allow me to get near the egress until we’re deep into Brooklyn.) But I don’t care because I enjoy my food, and I need it. I walk fast and mine is an active lifestyle. Food is fuel, and I need a lot of fuel to survive these multi-borough exploits that last way into the wee hours of the morning. This engine does not run on diesel-- well, maybe sour diesel, but I digress…

Anyway, it’s a substantial log of a burrito, measuring almost 8 inches in length and nearly 3 inches in diameter.



My compadre ordered a side of rice and beans, which was totally unnecessary unless he was trying to make up for the recent lack of imports of Russian natural gas.


I ordered the Carne Asada, i.e. grilled hangar steak with rice, beans, cheese, pico de gallo and avocado salsa, although there was nary a trace of this avocado salsa. I also asked for the Chipotle “Crack” Sauce, which to my amazement, is actually called “Chipotle ‘Crack’ Sauce,” and they didn’t charge me for it. The sauce was on the burrito, and it was tasty and went well with the meat, which was a little salty and maybe a little dry but still filled with flavor. The burrito was really well-constructed, guaranteeing that you get equal parts of everything in every bite, and there were lots of chunks of steak on board.


The tortilla also had the right consistency. It was not too wet and not too dry and there was just the right amount of it. Sometimes you get burritos that are nothing but tortilla or ones that are falling apart for lack of tort, but this one was just right. My amigo ordered the chicken, and he liked it but felt as though the Chipotle “Crack” Sauce overpowered it.

For good measure, I went back again today and ordered the Chipotle Pork, i.e. pulled pork in chipotle sauce (no word on whether or not crack is involved), rice, beans, cheese, pico de gallo, pickled red onions, and sour cream.


I again asked for the Chipotle “Crack” Sauce and stressed that I definitely wanted it on the burrito. Again, I was not charged for it. This tortilla was a little dryer, which was probably a good thing because the burrito was very wet and leaking out of the bottom. The drippage was certainly there, and it was not easy to eat like the Carne Asada. However, it was much tastier, undoubtedly thanks to the delicious Chipotle “Crack” Sauce. (Have I mentioned that enough times yet?) The whole burrito had a mellow chipotle flavor, and I was not complaining about it.

I do get the sense that the guys who run this stand are a tad too laid back about things. They say they “try” to be there every day, but we already know we can’t count on it. I can see that while their flavors are good, they might not be offering the same consistency on a regular basis. Plus, God only knows what the deal is with the crack sauce and why you never have to pay for it. If they took a little more serious approach, I could see this cart doing some big business. Yes, $7-8 is expensive for a burrito, but it’s a filling lunch, and let’s be honest, most takeout lunch in New York costs about this much money, if not more so. If it tastes good, we’re all willing to pay out the ass for it.

I will now admit that people might be a little free with their hyperbole-laden praise for these burritos. I’m no burrito connoisseur, but I did think they were pretty good and probably the best non-knife-and-fork burrito I’ve had in the city. That said, I think that Calexico probably fell short of the life-altering experience that many have claimed it to be. Then again, exaggeration is the hallmark of my friends’ reviews. After all, earlier today I had to suffer through some asshole’s long winded blog entry about some show about Fela Kuti…

The Redemptive Powers of Hot Empanadas and Warm Cookies (Alice Russell and Bonerama with Pimps of Joytime 6-21-08)

That morning was an incredible struggle. My head was pounding, my body ached, and I was exhausted. I spent a few hours trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again before my stockbroker departed and I caught a brief nap. I had to get something at Costco, so I soldiered off into the scorching heat to wait for a bus. After shopping, I wandered into nearby Socrates Sculpture Park, which was hosting some sort of Summer Solstice Celebration festival. While there, I heard a drum circle of children banging out a multitude of discordant rhythms, which sounded great while I suffered from a pounding headache. Technically, this qualified as my first musical event of the day.

However, the virtue of this detour to Socrates Sculpture Park was not found in the performance of 40 budding, little Tito Puentes with a John Cage sensibility. Nay, I found salvation in the form of Mama's Empanada's, a small tent that was serving up a host of the deep fried Latin treats. I saw exactly what I wanted in the Guava and Cheese Empanada. Now I don't know what genius accidentally discovered the combination of sweet guava with mellow, nutty queso, but I'd like to shake his or her hand. Wrap those two up in dough, deep fry it, hit it with a little powdered sugar, and you have just what the hangover doctor ordered.

When this day began, I had lofty dreams of pursuing a multi-state, double-river crossing quadruple header involving two parties in Jersey and two concerts in Manhattan. The quadruple header is not nearly as difficult as one might imagine, but it does require a bit of preparation, efficiency, focus, and solo travel. (Gentlemen, I highly advise against attempting this with a girlfriend/wife/call girl unless you want to get dumped/divorced/sued between stops 2 and 3.) Unfortunately, I had broken my own rules and lacked both preparation and focus for this effort. Not only was I suffering from a relentless hangover, but I was also way behind schedule and only capable of moving slowly. An executive decision needed to be made, and I had to abandon to Jersey half of the plan, which was unfortunate because I knew that both parties would feature fine food and even finer friends. Instead, I took a little time to regroup before heading out for the first of two concerts.

The Hiro Ballroom is a gorgeous venue underneath the swanky Maritime Hotel. With its stylish Japanese motif, it appears to be a lounge for the beautiful and talented...yet somehow they let me inside.

Arriving at 8:45, I figured I'd be walking in late, but I actually opened the door at the perfect time, as Alice Russell's band struck their first note. Initially, the scene was awkward because everyone was afraid to move into the middle of the floor for fear of blocking the views of the beautiful people sitting at perfectly stylish but naturally uncomfortable low-slung tables. Then Alice motioned everyone to come forward, so I shoved my ass right in front of those models, Middle Eastern princes, and their gay hangers-on.

As a performer, Alice Russell exuded an incredibly infectious charm. She's a pint-sized woman with a powerhouse voice and excellent diction (which was required to spit out her often dense lyrics), and her smile and jovial demeanor really lit up the room. Everyone seemed to be having a blast in her slightly randy but cheerfully seductive presence.

Her band was comprised of a Buddy Holly look-a-like on guitar and a fiddler who sang backup vocals flamboyantly (as all fiddlers seem to do these days). These two were imported from Russell's UK, and they were joined by San Franciscans on drums and bass, neither of whom missed a beat.

Her new tunes sounded tre funky, particularly "Dreamer," and the audience had to be filled with fans-in-the-know because they reacted with ebullient praise when she mentioned her old band, Quantic, playing some great blaxploitation-sounding numbers from their repertoire. I particularly enjoyed the uptown funk strut of "Hold On Tight," as well as the expected encore of the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army."

This clip is from a different show, but it gives you an idea of what she’s all about:



While I've enjoyed but haven't been blown away by Alice Russell's My Favourite Letters album, I thought her live show was fantastic. She's a very engaging performer with a nice set of pipes and some cool songs. I'll be seeing her again.

I bolted from Hiro and hopped on the cross-town bus, exiting at 14th St. and 5th Ave. for a nice stroll through the Village. I knew I needed to eat something, but I wasn't sure what I wanted, so I was on the lookout for something new. It arrived in the form of a sign that said "Warm cookies inside." I went inside Insomnia Cookies (which is open until 3AM) and felt the uncomfortably warm air before ordering a chocolate peanut butter cup cookie to go. It cost $2 because it was a "specialty" cookie, but their regular offerings were reasonably priced at 90 cents apiece. The cookie was warm, moist, and just melted into a delicious clump of peanut buttery chocolate goodness. I'm so happy I found this place. I shall return.

I went into Sullivan Hall and caught the last song-and-a-half from Pimps of Joytime. It's hard to fairly judge an act by such a short performance, but I heard enough fine music to pique my interest in seeing these guys play a headlining gig. Their sound was a unique mix of afrobeat, funk, reggae, and other global styles, and the decent-sized crowd seemed to be just as impressed as yours truly.

Here’s a video for one of their tunes:



At setbreak, I strolled around for a while and looked for the perfect dinner. With a desire to try something new but with only minimal hunger, I settled on The Creperie for the Grilled Vegetable Crepe, which included Peppers, Zucchini, Onions, Garlic, and Ricotta Cheese. It was quite tasty, although at $8 it was way overpriced for its meager portion and MacDougal Street home of typically cheap eats. Nevertheless, the line of people, most of whom were young women in tight outfits, proved that people apparently don't care about the prices (as long as they live by the light of Daddy's AMEX). I would probably go back to The Creperie again, but I'd opt for one of their numerous and more reasonably priced dessert crepes.

I went back to Sullivan Hall and walked in the door while Bonerama was finishing "The Ocean,” which you can hear now:



Bonerama was a band that we used to see all the time when they first began, but after a while, many of my fellow freaks and I began to tire of their endless Zeppelin and Sabbath covers, which eventually lost their novelty and became old hat. However, after the release of 2007's Bringing It Home, the band hit on a creative upswing. I was very impressed with what I heard at Jazz Fest, and this night’s performance was no exception.

Truth be told, I'm probably not the greatest judge of the quality of the performance because I was completely exhausted by midnight and my eyes were redder than a baboon’s ass. However, the band was able to pick me up and get my butt moving, grooving, and secondlining, particularly on an excellent Meters medley that included "Cabbage Alley," a completely original brass band spin on "Folsom Prison Blues," and an uplifting "When My Dreamboat Comes Home.” I should also mention the fine first set sit-in by Roswell Rudd, who played a couple of swingin' tunes, including Count Basie's famously smooth "Lil' Darling," while bringing the onstage trombone tally up to five. Craig Klein said, "Y'all make sure you go to YouTube and search 'Roswell Rudd.' R-U-D-D," so
here’s what you’ll find.

Thanks to the fine folks at Radio Johnson and taper extraordinaire Scott Bernstein, you can download podcasts of both Bonerama’s and Pimps of Joytime’s sets here.

I'm pretty sure the show ended close to 2:00, and I trudged into the subway, somehow managing to avoid falling asleep before my stop, which was a nice bonus and sufficient ending to a long day.