SAN ANTONIO, TX
SUNDAY
I flew in late in the afternoon. A guy
passed by me on the plane with something that looked like a violin case, but
was bell-shaped. I gestured towards it and said, "I have to ask." He
replied, "Oh, thet's fer mah cowboy hat!" I guess they take their
cowboy hats very seriously down here. The pilot was kind of ballsy, tilting the
plane roughly to dip the wings down to the left and right. I suspected he would
have done barrel rolls, rules permitting. I was surprised when we deplaned to
find two female pilots at the helm.
I shared a cab from the
airport with a few other women. As we passed a mall, one said to the other,
"PF Changs!!"
"We're so
there!"
and they high-fived as I
shuddered.
The cab driver turned to
me and asked, "Do you know what La Quinta means in Spanish? …Next to Dennys!"
I had a quiet night at
the Marriott with surprisingly good room service and a 10-dollar movie. Where
else can you get banana pudding from room service? But I consider banana
pudding to be Southern tiramisu. There is a fine art to it. The Nilla wafers
have a moment of spongy perfection between rock-hard and mush. Their Nilla
Wafers were far too brittle for my finely-honed banana pudding palate.
Monday
After my workshops were
done, I wandered the "Riverwalk". It is very reminiscent of
"It's a Small World" with mariachis and beer. Sometimes there were
even dueling mariachis. One of the bands played the chicken dance and it was
unnerving to have dozens of strangers around you spontaneously clap along. I
wished they would have started "...the stars at night are big and
bright..." so I could see if everyone would spontaneously sing like in Pee
Wee's Great Adventure.
I went to eat at Boudro's, as recommended.
I had a nice table by the "river". The appetizer of wild mushrooms on
polenta was interesting. Nice tangy goat cheese. But they used mostly crimini,
which I consider a "filler" mushroom, not truly a wild mushrom. I
ordered yellowfin tuna cooked through, because I buck the system by not liking
it "seared". It arrived seared. I sent it back. As I was waiting, I
saw something run around the feet of the woman next to me. It seemed like an
insect, but moved like a lizard, fast and circling. I neglected to warn her,
for fear it was just a hallucination. Suddenly a dozen of these monsters
swarmed up from the river. They looked like giant brown cockroaches. We all
squealed and jumped. I cried, "Oh God, do they fly?" Someone
screamed, "They fly! They fly!" A passerby mumbled, "They're
just palmetto bugs" with a sanguine, eyerolling undertone. The restaurant
understood that I chose not to continue with my meal. They very generously
comped my appetizer and I tipped my waiter and left.
I found an old ice-cream parlor. They
served Bluebell and Bluebonnet and Bluewhatever ice creams. They even had
banana pudding ice cream. It was heavenly.
I headed over to Pat O'Briens. They weren't
serving food anymore, but I ordered a hurricane anyways. Halfway through, I
decided it was unwise for a stranger in a strange land to get so hammered alone
and continued along the Riverwalk. A guy passing by gestured towards me and
commented to his friends, “Now THAT’S what I’m talkin’ ABOUT!” I worried, “WHAT
were they talking about???”
The County Line BBQ was
closing when I arrived, so I went to "Dick's Last Resort." I believe
it is a local Texas chain. It is one of those places where they are
"charmingly rude" and practice public humiliation. But they had
22-ounce microbrews, and a cover band playing songs like "Mustang
Sally" and "It's Your Thing (do what you want to do)" so I was
fine with it; let the waitress throw napkins at me, whatever. They
instinctively knew not to try to put a hat on me though. I think they have a
well-honed sense who not to f%$# with. All of the food mysteriously arrived in
buckets.
The buckets actually served to keep my
giant beer cold and fries warm, so I guess it wasn't so strange. I went to the restroom
as I was leaving and had to do the mexican hat dance on the tiolet to keep a
cockroach from crawling on my feet. So it was a pretty active night, bug-wise.
TUESDAY
Since I was trapped in workshops all day, I
sustained myself on Marriott fare until dinnertime. My friend, Angy, wanted to
try a local place called "Steers and Beers" for dinner. Hey, if it
rhymes, it's OK with me. Even if it is adjacent to the mall. The place was
decorated in a "Fridays" meets psychotic cowboy style. The dining room
boasted no less than FIVE jackalopes, as well as what I can only assume is a
"jackalopester... a jackalope with chicken feet (shudder). But I convinced
at least one mind-boggled tourist they were real, so what more can one hope for
in dining room decor. The restrooms were marked "LEATHER" and
"LACE". I just naturally chose "LEATHER" and walked into a
gauntlet of urinals. I guess I failed some kind of psychological profile there.
The chicken strip appetizers arrived with gravy for dipping, which was just
wrong somehow. My catfish filets were perfectly fried, but my friend's beef
ribs were coated in a cloyingly sweet sauce. I had thought Texas BBQ was a dry
rub with maybe a mop. Maybe not.
WEDNESDAY
I
THURSDAY
Thursday is when I decided I had had my fill
of workshops and cut out early. My husaband, Bob, wanted me to pick him up some
Rocky Erickson, so I took a cab over to Hogwild Records, the local hipster
record store by the college. I picked myself up some vinyl: Thirteenth Floor
Elevators, Roy Head, Jane County, Instant Funk, and some compilations. I also
got an interesting documentary on Tacoland, a famous bar which was the heart of
the San Antonio scene. Its much-loved owner and mascot was recently shot dead
during a robbery. I also found Bob a Rocky Erickson CD set, so mission
accomplished.
I caught a cab just
as big fat, warm raindrops started splashing on the windshield. When the
cabbie noticed my interest in the older restaurants, he insisted on taking me
to Armadillos, which he professed was one of the best and oldest hamburger
places in town. He even offered to turn off the meter. It looked a bit
yuppified, not Roadfood-looking at all, with hip bright southwestern colors and
the cleanest kitchen I have ever seen in my entire life, including my own.
Apparantly the place has
been there for fifty or more years. The new owners bought the place and fixed
it up 2 years ago. But they kept the original cooks and recipes.
They had something on the menu called
"Armadillo Eggs'. I thought they would be deep-fried jalapenos. I ordered
a side of them to eat in the car. The hamburgers were served up in 1/3
pound, half pound and full pound patties. The conversation I had with the
server went something like this:
"I guess I'll have
the 1/3 pound because I'm not that hungry. I don't want a very big
burger."
" But they are all
the same size."
" No. There are
three sizes."
" But they are all
the same size."
" Clearly they are
not. There is the 1/3, 1/2, and 1 pound burger."
" Right. But they
are all the same size."
" You mean
diameter?'
" I mean
size."
" So they are
different thicknesses, but the same diameter?"
" The same
size"
Who's on first? I gave
up.
As I was leaving, I
noticed lettering on the ceiling saying, " A WET BIRD NEVER FLIES AT
NIGHT." I asked, "What does that mean?" The manager said,
"We don't know. It was there when we bought it and we decided we'd better
keep it there."
Snugly back in the cab I
opened the syrofoam container holding the "Armadillo eggs" and
immediately started laughing my head off. Nestled Inside the container was
perhaps the most creative presentation of snack food I have ever seen...fried
round tortillas were sprinkled with jalapenos and blanketed with white cheese.
In the center of each tortilla was a little squirt of melted Velveeta that
served to make them look uncannily like fried eggs!! And they tasted
spectacular. I piqued the taxi drivers' curiosity and soon the two of us were
happily driving around town with the meter off, looking at little restaurants
and munching on armadillo eggs. They were so spicy we even stopped at the gas
station for milk. I know if I lived in San Antonio, my husband would be
tormented at work by my demands to stop and pick up armadillo eggs for me on
the way home. I can hear the whining echoing inside my head as I imagine their
spicy goodness.
When I got back to the hotel, I opened up
my second styrofoam container and again was surprised and delighted. This
flying saucer of a hamburger filled the entire container. It must have been
seven inches in diameter! That's why the waitress kept harping on size! I guess
it does matter. Crispy, greasy, charred to perfection, with a soft squishy bun,
it was the quintissential cheeseburger experience. Thank you, dear Mr. Cab
Driver, wherever you are!!!
I fell into a
grease-induced coma. My friends called, imploring me to go hit the bars, but I
was out for the night and cuddled back into bed. That's the beauty of hotel
rooms. Eating in bed. Greasy sheets just magically disappear the next day.
FRIDAY
Friday I felt it was my
responsibility to Roadfood, nay, to the world at large, to investigate as many
places as possible before catching my plane. First I decided to see if Pat
O'Briens was serving “authentic” New Orleans food. Even though the one IN New
Orleans is not anywhere I would normally eat. I ordered the appetizer sampler
platter. The fried gator was fine, tough like gator tends to be. It paled in
comparison (as it often does on a mixed platter) to the richer, lighter, and
flakier catfish strips. The shrimp rolled in Pina Colada mix and coconut was
pretty good, and the Bloody Mary wings were an interesting take on the usual.
But no hurricane-coated food? It came with about 5 dipping sauces. I called the
waitress over, "No remoulade?" She hurried out with a cupful, because
five dipping sauces just arent enough for a girl like me.
There was a barker standing by the back
door, hollering at little old ladies to hurry up and cross the street. What
seems so plebian on Bourbon Street seemed bizarre and out of place in Texas.
Next I just had to see what was up with
this 8.99 steak over at GM. It is a cross between cafeteria style and a pick-up
counter. I picked up a slice of Boston Cream pie, which seemed ubiquitous
around San Antonio. I started eating it while I waited for my order. Wow. soft,
fresh cake, rich custard filling and a smear of chocolate frosting on top. It
was amazing. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the steak. It was not the
toughest steak I have ever had. I just don't think you should ever have to
sneak any of your food into a napkin because you got tired of chewing it. But
that's just me. If you visit the Alamo, I would recommend GM as a nice stop for
iced tea and pie, and they have an intriguing breakfast menu, including
breakfast tacos.
I had to rush off to the
airport, so I didn’t not make it ever to the deli that had been recommended by
a fellow Roadfooder, as I had hoped to do. My taxi driver stopped at a drive-up
ATM for me and was stunned when I leaned the top half of my body out the window
to reach it. He said in a strong East Indian accent, “Tell your husband he is a
very lucky man. I wish I had a wife at home who was so bendy.” On my way into
the airport, I saw yet another "Don't mess with Texas" sticker. I
could no longer resist. I reached over and playfully tousled Texas' hair.
Olmos Pharmacy 3902 McCullough 210-822-3361
Armadillos 1423 McCullough Avenue
210-226-7556
GM Steakhouse 211 Alamo Plaza 210-223-1523
(Closed Tuesdays)
Hogwild Records 1824 N. Main
Every other restaurant: On the Riverwalk