A Decent Meal
An ode to road trip cuisine (and a Jewish ending)
I’m staying at a hostel in Colorado Springs, about an hour south of Denver. Tomorrow, I’ll start heading back to the east coast after two long weeks traveling across America – the first week alone, the second with my lifelong friend Alex.
After dropping her off at the airport today, I returned to the hostel where I spent an hour cleaning out the hatchback (a place where I’ve gotten more comfortable than any bed I’ve found along the way) before I got high (legal state, novel dispensaries, how could I not?) and went to the taco shop three minutes down the road.
MONICA’S
TACO SHOP
REAL MEXICAN FOOD
A white pylon sign with a red border stood solitary on the skyline against a backdrop of mountains glowing grey and navy in the night.
Inside, all the chairs were stacked on tables. The beige dining room was empty except for a man in an apron who nodded at me through the kitchen window. He told someone in Spanish that there was someone at the door.
“Dondé?” a young woman yelled before turning the corner and immediately making eye contact with me.
I ordered a chicken taco and two cheese enchiladas. I had decided in the car that I would order veggie, because I usually lean toward beef but I’ve recently decided I should cut down on my beef intake. (Open range cattle ranches make up long stretches of the interstates out west, and the cows will often walk right out on the road. So, having experienced the adorable and clever charm of many cows firsthand – picture me, six in the morning, thirty degrees outside with the windows down, apologizing profusely to the cattle for having to honk to move the calves out of the middle of the road – I’ve grown a mild aversion for the thought of them being in my tacos.) I didn’t notice veggie tacos on the menu at Monica’s, so I went for chicken. (Fortunately, I haven’t grown personally fond of any chickens on my trip. I did meet a rooster and two wild turkeys in Utah but, considering they were neither adorable nor endearing, decided I could continue to enjoy poultry.)
Back at the hostel, I went straight for the taco, wrapped in McYellow paper. No chance of savoring this symbolic last supper; the taco was gone before I noticed the miniature plastic ramekins of salsa, two green, one red. It was a hard taco – I usually ask for soft instead but being a little high, I forgot, and I’m glad I did. It was a perfect shell: softened at the bottom by the heat of the saucy shredded chicken, topped by a layer of shredded cheese, slightly melted atop the chicken but mostly still cold, though not as cold as the shredded lettuce that spilled out of the shell and over the sides, creating a small pile on the paper by the time I finished (which, in an ungraceful moment, I scooped up with my thumb and two forefingers and dropped into my mouth in multiple, greedy little pinches.) It was everything a taco should be – spontaneous, cheap, messy and delicious (and washed down with a Jarritos, preferably lime).
Sitting down for a meal at a table and chair with a cold drink set in front of me and a pile of napkins within reach (I’m a horribly messy eater) has become something of a luxury in the last few weeks. I’ve eaten in the car at gas stations, standing in the parking lot of national parks, sitting in the dirt at campgrounds, in the middle of a grueling hike through the desert. I’ve eaten while driving at least once a day and a few times at a picnic table, half-focused on the food while I cleaned in between bites out of fear that the sun would set and a bear would sniff us out before we even fell asleep. This is all more of an observation than a complaint. Eating my way through ten states has changed my love of food entirely.
Birmingham, Alabama
The first night of my trip, I stayed with a childhood friend in Birmingham. Having neglected the changing time zones I’d be driving through, I arrived earlier than we planned so I searched for something to eat. Obviously you eat barbecue when you go to Alabama, I thought. I pulled into the parking lot of a tiny, white brick building with a squat, black chimney ascending from the wood-fired pit inside. A police officer sat in the corner, quietly enjoying a plate of ribs. An elderly couple sat at a six-top table, the wife picking at both of their trays while the husband skimmed through a newspaper that he held out above the table, the bottom corners folding down just centimeters above a little paper bowl of mac and cheese and a slice of carrot cake.
When I ordered, I said “I’ll have a barbecue sandwich please,” and the man rang me up and then brought me a pulled pork sandwich, like I’d ordered. My first job, at fifteen years old, was taking to-go orders at a barbecue joint in a suburban Charlotte shopping center. When someone ordered a “barbecue sandwich,” I would respond, “pork, chicken or brisket?” In the Deep South, barbecue sandwich means one thing: pulled pork.
I ate at a small table against the wall, every inch of which was covered by picture frames boasting newspaper articles and photos of the owner – a New Jersey-Italian-looking man who I noticed walking back and forth between the dining room and kitchen – shaking hands with celebrities and vintage Crimson Tide players. The sandwich was steaming hot and not quite spicy enough and soft except for the perfectly crispy burnt edges of some strands of pork. Washed down with a Coke, I thought it was a decent meal in the best way, similar to the way I think about dating: men can generally be categorized as bad guys or decent guys. A decent guy may not always do the exact right thing, but at the very least has good intentions. He makes an effort; he probably has sisters and a strong mother figure. Meals, I’ve found, are usually either bad or decent. Everyone knows a bad meal when they have it, and the fault of a bad meal can lie with a number of things: the quality of the ingredients, an erroneous atmosphere in a restaurant, an off-putting waiter, the temperature of the food by the time it’s placed in front of you. A decent meal, though, isn’t necessarily characterized by any one feature of the experience (though it can be), but it just makes you feel good in a simple, honest way. This was the essence of my experience of eating the last two weeks: every place I’ve been, from strange and remote and vast to urban to rural to desert to mountain, I’ve had a truly decent meal.
Hot Springs, Arkansas
After Birmingham, I drove seven hours to a campsite in the middle of Arkansas. Arriving hours before my usual dinnertime, but paranoid about being alone and outside and doing something as vulnerable as cooking or eating after sundown, I immediately set up my camping stove. Between snacks (packs of seaweed, a few Trader Joe’s chocolate wedges and a carton of goldfish), I had plenty of time on the drive to plan my first campground dinner: ramen.
I was grateful to find a picnic table when I pulled into my site. Besides my initial annoyance at the flame from the propane stove literally melting the bottom of the cheap camping pot, I beamed internally at the small accomplishment of making my first meal alone in the outdoors. Along with the chicken-flavor packet, I added half of an almost-ripe avocado and all of an old packet of chili flakes from Panera that I fished from the bag of to-go condiments I’d been hoarding for this trip. I ate and watched people file into the surrounding campsites – mud-spattered pick-up trucks, white and grey RV trailers attached to Suburbans. An older couple occupied the site next to mine, opting to sit in lawn chairs for several hours into the night instead of their picnic table or the cozy, dimly-lit interior of their RV.
Next to my own car, I’d set up my hammock while I waited for the water to boil. My bed for the night was the hatchback with the seat down where I can fit perfectly outstretched with my head at the rear of the passenger seat and my feet at the trunk door.
I finished my ramen, packed up my trash and folded up the green Coleman stove before wrapping myself in the hammock with a book, at least an hour before sunset, full and exhausted and awed, and I thought, with complete sincerity, that was the best meal I’ve ever had. Campground dinners always felt that way, like in the moment it was the best thing I’d ever eaten. Maybe it’s the gratification of having worked in such a thoughtful, often stressful way for such a simple meal. Or the joy of eating a hot meal on a chilly night in view of the most brilliant sunset you’ve ever seen. Or the physical fullness after eating that reminds you that you’d forgotten to eat much of anything that day, save for the necessary coffee or two or three. Regardless, the campground dinner was always, without fail, a decent meal.
Lordsburg, New Mexico
Several nights later, I stayed at a highway hotel along I-10 in New Mexico. I was planning to camp that night in Arizona, but I got anxious about a number of things and booked a room the day before. Upon arrival, I was desperate to eat. I tried to make a bowl of ramen again, but the only way to get hot water was from the continental breakfast bar, and the hot water in the urn was hot but not boiling, so the noodles refused to even reach al dente. I gave up after only a few bites and walked to the Love’s gas station which shared the hotel’s parking lot.
“Can I get a build-your-own mini pizza with mushrooms and olives?”
“That’s it?”
I froze.
“Just mushrooms and olives?” The woman behind the glass glared at me.
“I guess I’ll add jalepeños.” I didn’t want to add anything; I always get mushrooms and olives on pizza, but I got a looming feeling that I was in the wrong, either from her tone or from the sheer intensity of the truck stop gas station: a dozen middle-aged men scanning the aisles; hairy bellies poking out underneath flannels; a loudspeaker announcing when a shower had just opened up; two teenage girls ordering wheat bread Subway sandwiches at the counter to my left; to my right, a rotating display of LED keychains flashing hundreds of different names, each flash a dizzying millisecond apart. So, I added jalepeños.
Back in my room, I unpacked the plastic bag: a greasy seven-inch pizza box, a blue package of pretzel M&Ms, a Coke and a slim paper bag filled with post cards. The room was quiet except the rumble of semi-trucks barreling down the highway just yards from my ground floor window. The pizza was absolutely smothered in jalepeños, and my veggies of choice were scarce beneath the peppers. She must be fucking with me, I thought. Regardless, I practically swallowed the pizza whole. A day prior, I’d spent a long, terrifying night at a rattlesnake infested campsite in Fort Davis, Texas after a bizarre and eerie visit to the quasi-ghost town of Marfa. This hotel room in the middle-of-nowhere New Mexico, with a chair propped under the door handle and a hot, pepper-loaded, gas station pizza, was the most comfortable I’d been in the last forty eight hours.
Arizona
For three nights, Alex and I camped in dispersed sites around Arizona as we made our way north through Coconino National Forest, around the Grand Canyon and into Utah. The first campground was primitive: no tables, no fire pit, no bathrooms, no water. Just you and the land. We balanced the Coleman stove on a large rock and made rice with snack-packs of seaweed and half an avocado each. We ate sitting on the back of the car with the hatchback door open, our bare feet dangling above the dirt.
At the Grand Canyon, Alex built a fire and, in the flickering glow in the dark, I ate an almost-hot, dollar store bowl of canned chicken and rice, which was impeccably bland until I covered it in a sheen of Italian seasoning, black pepper and a packet of hot sauce from my condiments grab bag. Accompanied by three pickles from a jar, it was an incredible feast. A meal that could’ve touched the lips of God himself.
Utah
Utah was a bit of a blur, partly because I was blinded by the pain of my skin flaking and burning from the severity of the altitude, and partly because we spent two and a half days at a ranch resort where we were supposed to work a seasonal job but ended up quitting mid-shift, as we were convinced we were a few shifts away from being swept into an actual cult (not naming denominational names here, but your guess is probably right).
One day after leaving the resort/escaping the cult, we stopped at a Route 66 gas station at the peak of the day’s heat, where I realized I’d only had a coffee that day – a delicious one from a dome-shaped building on the side of the highway called The Rock Stop which sold mostly rocks and gems, but also coffee.
At the gas station, I chose the last sausage egg and cheese burrito from the hot food display case for a dollar and change.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I said through mouthfuls as we picked up speed again, racing towards Colorado, feeling aimless at this point, having quit the job we traveled west for and leaving with practically no plans. “Literally.”
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Rather serendipitously, my road trip fell exactly in the window of the High Holidays. On Rosh Hashanah, the fifth day on the road, I walked alone through the pure dunes of White Sands National Park, almost like walking on a blank page, and thought of reflections and resolutions for the new year.
Yom Kippur began two nights ago, and with Alex as my witness, it was my first time ever succeeding in the full sundown-to-sundown fast (save for two cups of coffee, which, as I explained to my gentile companion, God would obviously allow because I had to stay alert to drive all day). My final meal before the fast began was a bowl of rice and Amy’s Thai Coconut soup, and a cold salami and cheese sandwich at a freezing but breathtaking campsite in Crested Butte, Colorado. After dinner, I briefly forgot about the fast while mindlessly sharing a snack of pretzels and Nutella during a riveting game of Crazy Eights in the back of the car, but I remained disciplined for the next twenty four hours.
Last night was both my Break the Fast and our last night together on our adventure, so it had to be special.
“We need a vibe,” Alex said on the way to the restaurant I’d chosen after extensive research. We were discussing how important it was, in choosing a restaurant, to not just have tasty food, but to also have adequate ambience in every way.
“No, exactly.” I said, continuing one of our traditional cyclical conversations in which we always agree but continue to harp on the same points in different words, agreeing with more fervor, back and forth, over and over, until the bit is up or some piece of traffic excitement catches our attention or one of us chokes on our words in a hilarious way that warrants a bout of unspeaking laughter.
We ate at The Lucky Dumpling, toasting to our trip with two Saporros and a sake flight. This was the first sit-down dinner we’d had together all week, and probably the first we’ve had in years. I ordered kimchi and garlicky spinach dumplings for the table; Alex had fried rice for an entree and I had pulled pork wonton nachos with pickled onions and sriracha queso. Over a not just decent but incredible meal, we talked and ate and reminisced and agreed over and over, eating slowly and drinking casually. I explained to Alex that I realized, through some light Googling and a little soul-searching during a quieter part of the day’s six hour drive, that the Yom Kippur fast was never meant to be a punishment, as I’d believed for many years; it was really an opportunity.
Before this fast, I never imagined I’d long for a snack from the gas station hot food bar, or yearn with such passion for undercooked rice, or daydream about eating anything crunchy and bite-sized and wrapped in plastic. My pretensions about food had seemingly dissipated in two weeks; I was craving things I might’ve spit on if it had been offered to me a few months ago.
A decent meal is not determined by its price or appearance or even its vibe, but by how it makes you feel. And living on the road, going days without a shower or a bed, sometimes going days without having a conversation with anyone besides the gas station attendant who sells you a crumbling breakfast burrito, the simplest things make you feel good. So good, you think, you could go on like this for a long time, driving aimlessly, making little pit stops forever and ever, just to continue having those delicious little moments of satisfaction, of the simple, fundamental human experience of eating for pleasure.
That day, each time we stopped for gas or a bathroom break or pulled into a highway roundabout to stand outside and look in absolute wonder at the yellow and green Rocky Mountains with their autumn peaks engulfed by pristine clouds, I would think for an instant, I’m hungry, and then in the next instant, I’m here. In those quiet, empty moments, listening to the distant drone of a podcast or a playlist I’d grown tired of or the thmp-thmp-thmp of the wind coming in through a single cracked window, I’d think first that I was hungry, if only because I knew I couldn’t eat, and then that I was more full than I’d ever been.