When in Rome, stick to the Roman food

Okay, so I should be getting ready for school. But despite continuously chanting "I am not a snob, I am not a snob" over and over to myself last night, I wake up this morning to the acceptance of the fact that I am, indeed, a snob.

Bert and I went out for a lovely dinner last night. Had a great time: a walk through downtown Ludwigshafen, fantastic conversation, cozy restaurant, the works -- very enjoyable. And despite Shauna's whispered warnings that there appears to be no decent Mexican food outside of the American Southwest and Mexico itself -- even in places which have an otherwise substantial Mexican population -- we thought we'd try a relatively popular place around here which purports to serve a decent enchilada. I almost hesitate to blog about this, because we had such a nice time, not to mention that Bert gallantly bought dinner, and I don't want him to think it wasn't fun. But what made the evening downright funny was the food. It just was too bizarre to keep silent about:

I knew not to expect the same kind of thing I was used to in Arizona. It's only logical. And to be fair, Bert's meal was pretty good, although probably because it didn't depart too far from what they do very well around here: pork covered with a dairy product and some incarnation of potato. (As a side note, German food is awesome. Slab of meat covered in cream sauce and accompanied by a starchy substance? Nothing more satisfying. And when it's done right, it's done right. ) But clearly, the menu wasn't exclusively Mexican-themed, despite the unmistakable decoration and throbbing Daddy Yankee music; and this should have been a tip-off that authenticity was not a priority here. But I couldn't help getting my hopes up just a little, even while reminding myself that this was far from Arizona, and they would probably have their own style. Besides, there's that Chino Bandito place in Phoenix, whose dishes are a shocking mix of Mexican and Chinese food -- and it's good. So this'll just be like, I dunno, Alemáno Bandito.

After perusing the menu, I selected what seemed a relatively safe, well-known, and hard-to-mess-up option: beef fajitas.

Shauna, you were right. The result was almost surreal: it was like the kitchen staff had read something, somewhere, about how to prepare fajitas, but only remembered some arbitrary details and so just filled in the rest by guessing. The pieces of fried beef were brought out in a black pan -- imitation iron skillet? -- though I wondered why, because the pan wasn't hot. There was no other plate; but the pan was accompanied by a single tortilla, which was the size of a plate, and so I was obligated to tear it up into fourths to make the individual fajitas. (Another tip-off here should have been the fact that, when I asked for another tortilla, the waitress didn't even recognize the word until I pointed at it.)

What I found inside the black pan was also an interesting mix of beef (good), bell peppers and onions (very nice)... and zucchini, eggplant slices, and mushrooms? Okayyyy... well, it's their own creation. Be open-minded. I'm not a snob, I'm not a snob...

Load up piece of tortilla. Turn to the plate holding what should have contained beans, sour cream, cheese, guacamole, and salsa.

I blinked. Four identical little containers, each apparently filled with the same puzzingly smooth substance -- except that each one was a different primary color -- sat on a tray next to me. One appeared to be the shiny yellow cheez-sauce that you might pump on cold nachos at the gas station. Another held some kind of pale green-colored dip that might have been guacamole, had the plasticy texture hinted at a content of anything more than 0.03% fresh avocado; another contained shredded mozzarella (now I know the kind of stuff I'm used to is probably Americanized to some extent, but Italian cheese?); and finally, a thing of ketchup. I tasted it. No, not ketchup; barbecue sauce?

I could handle the fact that the odd little assortment didn't seem to include any (even imitation) beans. But how about at least a little salsa? I asked the waitress if they had any.

She pointed at the ketchup. "That's salsa."

I frowned in confusion at the little container, not computing. "No, I mean, like... salsa. You know, with tomatoes, chiles, that kind of thing?"

She gave me the same look I had given her, as if we were speaking with each other in tongues. "Is it not spicy enough? I can add some curry powder if you'd like."

Curry powder. "Uh, no thanks, nevermind, it's fine." I am not a snob, I am not a snob, I am not a... I ate some of the meal anyway, pretending it was just a beef and vegetable sandwich with an assortment of odd squeeze-bottle condiments (though still huffily refused to touch the ketchup or cheez wiz). It was my own fault, I knew. You don't go into a placed called "Hemingway's", which serves feta cheese and french fry dishes, and expect anything resembling even Nico's Taco Shop. I suppose it would be like a Belgian sticking his nose up at the "Belgian waffle" at Denny's. But this place wasn't Denny's; in fact, it was relatively fancy. I just couldn't figure out why they would have something on the menu, call it a "fajita", and then do... this. It was like the "Oktoberfest" in Tucson, which serves Budweiser and hot dogs. Now, to be fair, I am sure there is at least one good Mexican restaurant in Germany. In fact, we had seen a place in Schwetzingen which advertised its head chef as actually coming from Mexico, which I imagine is a good sign. But this cinches it: I am going to the grocery store, finding my own ingredients, and making the damned things myself.