There’s a joke by comic Jim Gaffigan about what comprises Mexican food, no matter what the name: meat, beans, rice, cheese, and a flour tortilla.
I’m not a huge fan of Mexican or TexMex cuisine, in part because I find that description to be very true, meaning that everything I order tastes exactly the same, but also because Mexican is the one type of cuisine where I know that I will always go directly to the bathroom. In a hurry. Do not pass go, do not collect Pepto Bismol. This was something noted in a previous post [link] describing some of the food related events on Michael’s and my honeymoon.
It’s partly because I am one of those people for whom any green peppers yield digestive troubles–it doesn’t matter if it’s the mildest jalepeno, or even just a green bell pepper, the reaction in my body is immediate: red warning bells go off, and the green peppers are, ahem, evacuated.
And yet, I still go out for Mexican. It’s never something I suggest. But when someone else really wants to go out for Mexican, especially a group, I capitulate and bring along my Immodium.
And I did so earlier this summer. I admit, the sangria didn’t help the decision making process for what to order: the blandest meat, beans, rice, and cheese on the menu.
I ordered a “Mexican Revolution.”
The unfortunately easily confused waitress yelled out, “who ordered the Mexican Revolution?” and seemed startled when I stood and shouted “Viva la revolución!”
My Mexican Revolution wasn’t as satisfying as other Mexican and Tex Mex meals I’ve had, but at least I can joke about how the end result was the same…just a little funnier, now that I have an apt description for what Mexican food does to my body:
Mexican Revolution, indeed.