chilaquiles

Chilaquiles really might be at their best twenty minutes or so after they are served. The same argument could potentially be made for pizza. Sometimes the thing is better once it has cooled, when the more liquid aspects to the dish, the melted cheese, the salsa, become something else, something with more solid attributes. Chilaquiles taste best like this when you are hungry and stoned and in love with the weird, chicken-like texture tortilla chips have once they have soaked up all the salsa in the dish. The joy in eating this particular dish is a joy because it presents to us the sturdy tortilla chip, and we see its proud back brought down by the blows of some giant who had been offscreen until this moment, a threat only hinted at by the dark clouds off on the horizon our hero was marching toward. We see a giant tripped up by rope, fallen to the earth. We see that boy who seemed something else take a dick up his ass and make a face of pain, a pure emotion one didn't think possible, his detached badinage making you believe, falsely, that this guy was too cool for it all, over it. A desire's broad outlines somehow satisfied with each bite of the chilaquiles. We see the thing's will broken, and, more importantly here, feel our own asserted by its submission.

We eat and eat and cannot stop. The food runs out though, and we are forced to.