Food Legend

Food reviews and tales from one man's food adventures
COCK ‘N’ BULL ENCHILADAS

Dear Food Legend,

I present to you, my very special, Cock ‘n’ Bull Enchiladas! 

Two staffs of Mexican inspired goodness! One chicken, one steak. Both made with love!

If you’re allergic to yum! return to sender. If not, enjoy with my thanks. 

Yours sincerely,
Sam Alder BA Hons

P.S. Regards to Lady Legend. 

Wow. This, dear readers, is what shalt hereon in be knownst as…the future. The above heaven penned letters came written on leaf of paper, affixed to lid of lunch box, dearly departed at my place of work. I didn’t see my sender, he despatched his work in stealth silence, warm breath on the barkeep’s lobe and Sam was gone. He’s earned his wings, he’s an angel now. He had me at the word “staffs”. God speed you black enchilada. 

On our first meeting, mere week ago, I was introduced to today’s chef and he popped the question immediately. 

If I make something will you eat it? Yes. 

The next day, the day of yesterday’s pizza in fact, I arose with one thought in my mind…who WAS that guy? What was his NAME? How can I contact him and reiterate my “yes”, my want, my yearn. He was a friend of a mutual so I used ancient tracking device methods to make it happen. I say make it happen but what did I do? Not a lot asides eager it up, beg for food-giveness. I’m not the man, you’re the man. You toiled over the innards of this container I carry, double bagged on a busy train. I waited, anticipated, dreamed of the possibilities. When I claimed the drop off earlier today, I was scared to even peek past the carrier bag. Not chilled to the bone, more dressed to the nines, in my mind. If anything I was too keen, I wanted to savour the anonymity of the dish for precious hours more. I wanted to open my present on Christmas morning. It just felt rude to extinguish the mystery before I got home. Wait I did, though the guacamole tub atop the box was clearly visible through the bag. Set my marbles in motion it did, I could ascertain vague colours through the plastic, some kind of chilli I was thinking. I feared for the unknown. What if I couldn’t decipher the insides? What if I didn’t know what to title the dish? What if I tick the box marked “arse” when I mean “elbow”? So this is pressure, this is what pressure feels like. I haven’t felt this alive in years. A sweet from a stranger, they said it was wrong but then why does taste so right?

I’m at home now, I’m unwrapping my bindle. Lady Legend is holding my hand, trying not to shake, fever beads gathering at her brow. We’re hoping for a girl but what if it’s a boy? I’ve already painted the nursery pink but we’ll cut our cloth accordingly. The gates are open, I see your note for the first time. Darling, it’s enchiladas! I’m off, I’m cartwheeling around the house. Doors and windows flung open, old neighbours getting kissed, I’m singing the enchiladas theme tune yet I’ve never even heard it. I start tearing up bank statements, throwing receipts down the street, flushing taxes down the toilet. It all seems so futile! I’m born again, I’m a born again Mexican. My baby has a moustache and a little guitar. Sing for me lad. I don’t care that you’re a boy, oh and what’s this…a girl too! A boygirl! I couldn’t be happier. You’re the best of both worlds, daughterson. We’ll paint one half of the nursery blue, blue for boy, pink for girl. One chicken, one beef. I read your note again, the adoption papers have been counted and verified. I’m the proud bouncing father of one beef, one chicken enchiladas. I preheat the oven and prepare my table. 

How would you have reheated these staffs, Sam? I don’t have a microwave but you would’ve reanimated them in the oven anyway wouldn’t you? I’m looking after someone else’s kin now, I’m walking on eggshells. By the time I take the staffs out, they’re blistered by the sun. Their skin charred, outstanding outers crisped and blackened. Not completely, I wouldn’t drop the ball entirely. Don’t even mind it, I don’t. They look neat enough to eat these staffs. These staffs you so named, these rowboats, these blamonges. Parcelled so rightly, so tightly, one chicken, one beef. Bulging seamwards, billowing steam heavenwards. I’m so ready for this. I pop the guacamole, you’ve bowled me over again. It’s a mix, one part sour cream, one part guacamole, how did you know? Get in. I’m smearing it back and forth, fudging all laws of presentation, I’m going abstract. Street folk are slack jawed, fogging up the kitchen window wondering if I’m eating a painting, a sculpture, art. I’m eating everything, whichever way you look at it, I’m eating it. It looks beautiful Sam, you’ve really done it this time. I tuck in as calmly as one can do in these situations, the heat from the sweet release clads my face. The innards are unspooling in real time. I’m no food critic, I struggle dissecting the elements of any given meal. Someone gave me an unknown cake to try at work once, they didn’t know what it was, I had to grasp. Potato I said? I wasn’t trying to be cute neither…parsnip? Uh, syrup? Brown? Green? I don’t know. I see these enchiladas and I feel them by fork and by mouth. This skin that I’ve pierced, chewed and devoured…what is it? I know it’s a tortilla but wait, could it be a pasta sheet? It feels plush like pasta in places. But no, what…it’s obviously not a pasta sheet, that doesn’t happen. This is enchiladas not cannelloni, wait, maybe it’s cannelloni?? My mind casts doubt at every clearing, I can trick myself out of anything. There’s a lot of elements I can relate to here though, I see chicken, I see beef. They don’t count because I was tipped off in your note. I see peppers, I see chilli, I see mushrooms, I see cheese, I see the semblance of a sauce…I see chorizo. You dark angel! Inspired addition Sam, your family is proud. You know what you’re doing by cross-referencing your meats. That spritz of chorizo, that refined hand, flicking those chunks in slow motion towards your top heat pan. Have you ever searched “Jamie Oliver talks dirty” on YouTube? We’re getting towards that territory now, you’ve set me off. There’s a nice heat, it’s seasoned to perfection, we don’t need Tabasco or other condiments. We don’t really need the chips we’ve got on a sidecar. Shhhh. Sorry Sam, I was worried I wasn’t going to have enough, now I’m worried I’ve not got the bottle. My thirst is developing at a rate of knots, I get up and walk to the fridge to get tonic water (the wine of waters), all of two yards, I almost fall down. This is how good this meal is, I’m falling down. I’m having a heart attack and pulling the table cloth down with me. This food fills. Me like this food. It’s made real good, it’s Manchester origins defy it’s Mexican origins. Maybe Sam is a Mexican spy sent to Manchester to trick me, to fill me in the process. Yes, that’s what it is. It’s good food gone bad, it’s good food woken up on the bad side of the tracks. It’s the bad food that good DIDN’T want you to see. It’s a little bit naughty. It’s a dream, it’s a heaven dose. It’s hell in a handbag. The content gave me hope for all future content, weight distributed equally, meat to other ratio excellent. The slights of knife, a wizard’s eye, clearly evident in the inner workings. Death by razor to this chilli, waffffer thin. All the ingredients are world class, the cuts, the choices. I owe Sam big. I’m half expecting him to walk out from behind my bedroom curtains holding a receipt. Ta da, i didn’t shop at Sainsbury’s, I went to Poundstretcher and the whole lot only cost £1.50. Flabbergasted I’d be. Poundstretcher does meat now??, I’d say. Wonders never cease, enchiladas don’t quit. You’ve slayed me, Sam. I didn’t think I’d ever eat again when I started writing this but now I’m healing. Words can heal, strangers can give sweets. I can eat whatever you want and I want to. 

Thank you Sam.

COCK ‘N’ BULL ENCHILADAS

Dear Food Legend,

I present to you, my very special, Cock ‘n’ Bull Enchiladas!

Two staffs of Mexican inspired goodness! One chicken, one steak. Both made with love!

If you’re allergic to yum! return to sender. If not, enjoy with my thanks.

Yours sincerely,
Sam Alder BA Hons

P.S. Regards to Lady Legend.

Wow. This, dear readers, is what shalt hereon in be knownst as…the future. The above heaven penned letters came written on leaf of paper, affixed to lid of lunch box, dearly departed at my place of work. I didn’t see my sender, he despatched his work in stealth silence, warm breath on the barkeep’s lobe and Sam was gone. He’s earned his wings, he’s an angel now. He had me at the word “staffs”. God speed you black enchilada.

On our first meeting, mere week ago, I was introduced to today’s chef and he popped the question immediately.

If I make something will you eat it? Yes.

The next day, the day of yesterday’s pizza in fact, I arose with one thought in my mind…who WAS that guy? What was his NAME? How can I contact him and reiterate my “yes”, my want, my yearn. He was a friend of a mutual so I used ancient tracking device methods to make it happen. I say make it happen but what did I do? Not a lot asides eager it up, beg for food-giveness. I’m not the man, you’re the man. You toiled over the innards of this container I carry, double bagged on a busy train. I waited, anticipated, dreamed of the possibilities. When I claimed the drop off earlier today, I was scared to even peek past the carrier bag. Not chilled to the bone, more dressed to the nines, in my mind. If anything I was too keen, I wanted to savour the anonymity of the dish for precious hours more. I wanted to open my present on Christmas morning. It just felt rude to extinguish the mystery before I got home. Wait I did, though the guacamole tub atop the box was clearly visible through the bag. Set my marbles in motion it did, I could ascertain vague colours through the plastic, some kind of chilli I was thinking. I feared for the unknown. What if I couldn’t decipher the insides? What if I didn’t know what to title the dish? What if I tick the box marked “arse” when I mean “elbow”? So this is pressure, this is what pressure feels like. I haven’t felt this alive in years. A sweet from a stranger, they said it was wrong but then why does taste so right?

I’m at home now, I’m unwrapping my bindle. Lady Legend is holding my hand, trying not to shake, fever beads gathering at her brow. We’re hoping for a girl but what if it’s a boy? I’ve already painted the nursery pink but we’ll cut our cloth accordingly. The gates are open, I see your note for the first time. Darling, it’s enchiladas! I’m off, I’m cartwheeling around the house. Doors and windows flung open, old neighbours getting kissed, I’m singing the enchiladas theme tune yet I’ve never even heard it. I start tearing up bank statements, throwing receipts down the street, flushing taxes down the toilet. It all seems so futile! I’m born again, I’m a born again Mexican. My baby has a moustache and a little guitar. Sing for me lad. I don’t care that you’re a boy, oh and what’s this…a girl too! A boygirl! I couldn’t be happier. You’re the best of both worlds, daughterson. We’ll paint one half of the nursery blue, blue for boy, pink for girl. One chicken, one beef. I read your note again, the adoption papers have been counted and verified. I’m the proud bouncing father of one beef, one chicken enchiladas. I preheat the oven and prepare my table.

How would you have reheated these staffs, Sam? I don’t have a microwave but you would’ve reanimated them in the oven anyway wouldn’t you? I’m looking after someone else’s kin now, I’m walking on eggshells. By the time I take the staffs out, they’re blistered by the sun. Their skin charred, outstanding outers crisped and blackened. Not completely, I wouldn’t drop the ball entirely. Don’t even mind it, I don’t. They look neat enough to eat these staffs. These staffs you so named, these rowboats, these blamonges. Parcelled so rightly, so tightly, one chicken, one beef. Bulging seamwards, billowing steam heavenwards. I’m so ready for this. I pop the guacamole, you’ve bowled me over again. It’s a mix, one part sour cream, one part guacamole, how did you know? Get in. I’m smearing it back and forth, fudging all laws of presentation, I’m going abstract. Street folk are slack jawed, fogging up the kitchen window wondering if I’m eating a painting, a sculpture, art. I’m eating everything, whichever way you look at it, I’m eating it. It looks beautiful Sam, you’ve really done it this time. I tuck in as calmly as one can do in these situations, the heat from the sweet release clads my face. The innards are unspooling in real time. I’m no food critic, I struggle dissecting the elements of any given meal. Someone gave me an unknown cake to try at work once, they didn’t know what it was, I had to grasp. Potato I said? I wasn’t trying to be cute neither…parsnip? Uh, syrup? Brown? Green? I don’t know. I see these enchiladas and I feel them by fork and by mouth. This skin that I’ve pierced, chewed and devoured…what is it? I know it’s a tortilla but wait, could it be a pasta sheet? It feels plush like pasta in places. But no, what…it’s obviously not a pasta sheet, that doesn’t happen. This is enchiladas not cannelloni, wait, maybe it’s cannelloni?? My mind casts doubt at every clearing, I can trick myself out of anything. There’s a lot of elements I can relate to here though, I see chicken, I see beef. They don’t count because I was tipped off in your note. I see peppers, I see chilli, I see mushrooms, I see cheese, I see the semblance of a sauce…I see chorizo. You dark angel! Inspired addition Sam, your family is proud. You know what you’re doing by cross-referencing your meats. That spritz of chorizo, that refined hand, flicking those chunks in slow motion towards your top heat pan. Have you ever searched “Jamie Oliver talks dirty” on YouTube? We’re getting towards that territory now, you’ve set me off. There’s a nice heat, it’s seasoned to perfection, we don’t need Tabasco or other condiments. We don’t really need the chips we’ve got on a sidecar. Shhhh. Sorry Sam, I was worried I wasn’t going to have enough, now I’m worried I’ve not got the bottle. My thirst is developing at a rate of knots, I get up and walk to the fridge to get tonic water (the wine of waters), all of two yards, I almost fall down. This is how good this meal is, I’m falling down. I’m having a heart attack and pulling the table cloth down with me. This food fills. Me like this food. It’s made real good, it’s Manchester origins defy it’s Mexican origins. Maybe Sam is a Mexican spy sent to Manchester to trick me, to fill me in the process. Yes, that’s what it is. It’s good food gone bad, it’s good food woken up on the bad side of the tracks. It’s the bad food that good DIDN’T want you to see. It’s a little bit naughty. It’s a dream, it’s a heaven dose. It’s hell in a handbag. The content gave me hope for all future content, weight distributed equally, meat to other ratio excellent. The slights of knife, a wizard’s eye, clearly evident in the inner workings. Death by razor to this chilli, waffffer thin. All the ingredients are world class, the cuts, the choices. I owe Sam big. I’m half expecting him to walk out from behind my bedroom curtains holding a receipt. Ta da, i didn’t shop at Sainsbury’s, I went to Poundstretcher and the whole lot only cost £1.50. Flabbergasted I’d be. Poundstretcher does meat now??, I’d say. Wonders never cease, enchiladas don’t quit. You’ve slayed me, Sam. I didn’t think I’d ever eat again when I started writing this but now I’m healing. Words can heal, strangers can give sweets. I can eat whatever you want and I want to.

Thank you Sam.

  1. foodlegend posted this