Yes, We Have No Burritos
Santa Barbara, California
My eyes are fixed on the woman behind the order window, in the center of the restaurant’s prep area and behind the short, white-haired man who took my order. She’s rhythmically balling up wads of tortilla dough into her palm and smacking them authoritatively onto a waist-high surface before grabbing the handle of a press and stamping the spheres into the perfectly round shapes that will soon become my lunch. She must have made 200 of them during the ten mesmerizing minutes I stood waiting, though I doubt she thought much of her skillful hands’ repetitious work.
I’ve come to this particular taqueria on the advice of a foodie-friend who grew up here in Santa Barbara. “You have to go to La Super-Rica,” he beseeched. “It’s Julia Childs’ favorite restaurant.” Then, more firmly, “Meaghan. Promise me you’ll go to La Super-Rica.”
La Super-Rica Taqueria is not the four-star, five-course restaurant with a water view that you might expect a master chef’s favorite restaurant to be. On the contrary, La Super-Rica occupies a one-story building on North Milpas Street, in a neighborhood that, despite its proximity to the Santa Barbara Zoo, hasn’t quite made it into the tourist propaganda yet.
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La Super-Rica |
I actually drive right past the obscured white and aqua bungalow my first time by, mistaking it for a displaced residence among the small businesses that surround it. As I near the entrance, I get the feeling that I’m about to enter a secret club. Inside, two windows – one for ordering, one for pick-up – sit below a blackboard displaying the menu, written in Spanish. Beside the turquoise-painted frame of the ordering window, daily specials are taped to the glass.
La Super-Rica is so super Mexican, they don’t even have burritos on the menu. Since I understand little Spanish and the line building behind me is putting the pressure on to order, I choose two pollo dishes and step aside to the threshold that separates the ordering entrance area from the dining room. There, satisfied-looking people seem happy to be crammed into tables, sipping Tecate beer in greenish light diffused through the translucent, corrugated roof. Fine dining may dictate otherwise, but here, the ambience is perfect.
It’s when the line is spilling out the door that I realize I’ve forgotten to order the guacamole. I debate whether or not to crash the line in a desperate attempt to appease my unflagging desire for an avocado-fix. I forego the idea when I imagine the customers lining up – rough-looking men with well-endowed biceps – hungrily scowling at my out-of-town self.
I feel a little panicky about this. I mean, Santa Barbara may be the ideal setting for the mythical Southern California lifestyle, but its finest feature isn’t its mission-style architecture, seaside boardwalk, or well-bronzed babes. Santa Barbara’s best characteristic is its gastronomy – in particular, its proclivity for avocados. There isn’t a turkey sandwich, taco, or sushi roll anywhere within city limits that can’t be made with the soft green fruit.
At the friend’s house where I’m staying, avocados grow in the backyard. When they’re ripe, we pick and eat them. When they’re not, we pick and place them in paper bags to hasten their perfection. And when we go out to dine – upscale or down – avocado is always somewhere on the menu.
When my order is finally up, I drive to the zoo, sans guacamole, to meet my host, the zoo’s event coordinator. “They didn’t have burritos,” I tell her as I remove the brown cardboard food boxes and plastic, film-wrapped Styrofoam plates from the paper bag. “Sorry.”
I unwrap the plate and the warm steamy smell of mole and shredded chicken wafts the 18 inches up to my nose, beating the first juicy and spicy forkful to my mouth. But as I reach for the hot sauce, I see another small container filled with goop – freshly mashed avocado.
Yes! I exclaim internally with victorious delight. Though that first bite had been delicious on its own, the most memorable part of the meal was also the most satisfying – La Super-Rica had not let me down. And neither of us cared one bit that we weren’t eating burritos.
