Enchiladas

Growing up five minutes away from the Texan border means you get the worst of both worlds: Tex-Mex that is terrible from each side of the hyphen. But, lucky for me, terrible Tex-Mex is still amazing. Usually. 

Plastic cheese spread over greasy enchiladas? Sign me up. Paper-thin tortilla chips that snap the instant they hit the surface of the chunky guacamole? Yes, please. Sizzling hot fajitas that are little more than glorified strips of slightly-seasoned meat? The waitress doesn’t even have to ask. 

Tex-Mex restaurants were my childhood. After church on Sundays, for birthday parties, anytime family came to town, and, as one of my favorite memories, after my last day of high school. 

A lot of the food I ate growing up is still accessible to me while I am living in Italy, but just about anything Tex-Mex is not included on that list. During my travels in, around, and outside of Perugia, I have been hunting for Mexican food like a madman. Although it’s tough to find, I eventually had the great fortune of breaking my three-month fast at Los Chicos Tex-Mex in Florence, a meal so full of joy I’m surprised I didn’t pop. 

But this week, I had an even greater honor and an even greater privilege: dining with my professor, her husband, and my class at her apartment here in Perugia as we feasted on a spread he made just for us. 

Homemade Mexican food is a whole different ballpark for me, even if it is not authentic. Obviously there will always be the colloquial “white people taco night,” but this kind of slightly-more-formal, homemade dinner is something more. As I dug in, I couldn’t help but be reminded of one of the birthday parties of one of my dearest friends, specifically the year we thought she was moving to Germany the week after. 

I’ll be honest: that party was weird. Emotions ran rampant as we tried to celebrate while simultaneously fighting the depressing reality we knew was coming. Ironically, that reality never surfaced. At the last possible second, her father’s supervisor called to inform him that he and his family would, in fact, not be relocating to Germany. She could stay.

Aside from this week, that is the only time I’ve had homemade Mexican food that stretched beyond the “white people taco” dinner. As I watched my professor uncover each dish one-by-one, explaining what each one was and its ingredients, I did not expect the flood of memories and emotions that came as she tore off aluminum foil to reveal a tray full of piping hot enchiladas. It felt like I was right back at my friend’s house, watching hungrily from the sidelines as she pulled her own cheesy enchiladas out of the oven. The pit in my stomach, the intense missing of a best friend, returned to its home base. I texted her the next day.

How can Tex-Mex not be a part of my identity? How can I not miss it? How can I not miss that greasy spoon that my six favorite people gathered at after our last day of school together? And, most importantly, where can I reliably find Tex-Mex in Perugia? (that last one’s not rhetorical)