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“Enchiladas are warm hugs, enveloped in tortillas and blanketed in sauce,” Bryan Washington wrote. Truer words? Never spoken.
Good morning. A couple of years ago, Bryan Washington wrote a moving piece for The New York Times Magazine about cheese enchiladas (above) that reminded me of a terrific few days I once spent in Houston researching their deliciousness.
I ate widely that week — at Teotihuacan on Irvington Boulevard, at one of the outposts of Molina’s Cantina, at the Original Ninfa’s on Navigation, at the Ninfa’s apostate El Tiempo Cantina next door, at Spanish Flowers, at Sylvia’s.
At El Real Tex-Mex on Westheimer Street, I learned to make enchiladas myself, at the elbow of the Tex-Mex scholar and restaurateur Robb Walsh. We knocked out enchiladas con carne, chicken enchiladas with salsa verde and cheese enchiladas with chili gravy that put me on a Velveeta kick, for how melty the processed cheese could get, even when used with a mixture of Cheddar for flavor.
“Enchiladas are warm hugs, enveloped in tortillas and blanketed in sauce,” Bryan wrote in his story. “Even the name alone — enchiladas! — becomes a catalyst for anticipation: Comfort is in the vicinity. It’s on the way! Everything (or at least the next 15 minutes) could very well turn out fine.”
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Cheese Enchiladas
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