Last night we went to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, Monterrey’s. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of joint, a place where you half expect to bump into Guy Fieri. It’s rarely crowded, always fast, and the prices and food are as good as you can get. Plus, when my children stand on the tables and scream like banshees on methamphetamine, no one seems to care. As a parent, that’s golden.
Anyway, when it came time to order we set the kids up with the usual (soft chicken tacos, no lettuce) and then Rachel surprised me. She ordered for both of us: enchiladas verde.
Now, a word about this: I’m the hot food person in our family. The reason we eat mexican as much as we do is my love of the spicy meal. And there’s not many meals that are spicier than the enchiladas verde at Monterrey’s. Chicken, cooked with peppers and onions, wrapped inside a corn tortilla, smothered in salsa verde (salsa made with roasted green chiles)…it’s a spicy fanatic’s dream.
So when my wife ordered two, I was a bit surprised.
When she took the first bite, so was she. She half-gasped and turned immediately to me.
“I think my lips are on fire,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “In about 40 minutes, they won’t be the only things on fire.”
She ate about half of her plate, learning how to mix the rice and beans with the enchilada to soften the heat. But eventually it got to her – she couldn’t push through any longer. Rachel dropped her fork to her plate, pushed it away, and said, “Goodness, that’s hot.”
I kept shoveling my food down. I think I at least nodded at the observation.
She took the rest of her’s home in a box and ate it for lunch today. “My lips aren’t on fire,” she told me after eating, “but my stomach feels like it’s melting.”
I know the feeling.
I guess at our age, you get what you pay for. Or, sometimes, you pay for what you get.