EDIBLE FIELD GUIDE

Pancho and Torta

BY SCOTT GOULD
PHOTOS BY ASHLEY WARLICK

A friend tells me I have to go to Las Meras Tortas (subtitled a “Taco and Burrito Shop,” which I find a wonderful and alarming description, as if it is acceptable to shop for tacos and burritos in a place across the four-lane from a bowling alley and two doors down from a gold-purchasing emporium.) I’m told I must go there because of the torta—the Mexican sub, the Mexican blue-collar sammie, the workingman’s (and woman’s and everything- in-between’s) sandwich that migrated from south of the border decades ago. The person who pushes me toward Las Meras Tortas knows I love sandwiches and chaos and creativity, and she says this place will give me a double-handful of both. Plus, I can shop for a burrito.

Las Mertas Tortas is located in a space that contains echoes of the previous tenants, whomever and whatever they were. The checkerboard floor tiles have some history on them, and the tables seem more suited for a diner than a taco shop. But LMT is operating-room spotless, and along with the long menu board, the walls are covered with large, neatly framed posters— all black-and-white movie stills from Mexican cinema, circa 1930s and 40s, I guess. Mascaraed men sneering from beneath their sombreros, clutching dark-haired damsels. Wild-eyed bandoleros chomping half-cigarillos. One of them, I’m positive, is some actor portraying Pancho Villa.

I took Spanish in college from Senor Carr, who fled higher education to sell fine jewelry. Senor Carr never explained the torta to us, but simply by scanning the menu board, I realize “torta” must be Spanish for: whatever the heck you can possibly shove between two slices of bread. This, I see, is not a sandwich. This is a situation.

According to the menu, every torta comes with refried beans, onions, tomatoes, avocado, jalapenos, and white Mexican cheese, all atop a soft, warm roll called a telera. And this is just the base, my friend, the foundation. You then have leeway to accessorize. Especialities of the house exist, like the La Toluquena, with spicy pork, Mexican sausage and a Mexican version of mozzarella cheese. La Mexicana contains grilled steak, ham, pineapple and cheese. La Hawaiana has (not surprisingly) ham and pineapple and (maybe surprisingly) mozzarella cheese. There’s a selection for the geographically adventurous: the La Italiana torta with ham, American cheese and mozzarella cheese. And for the simply adventurous, the La Mera, with breaded steak, wiener and head cheese. (Wiener, I notice, is quite popular in the tortas world.)

I stand there and gaze and understand how this would overwhelm the uninitiated, all of the cheeses and meats and countries. Which is why I am grateful the people behind the counter at Las Meras Tortas created tortas sencillas (the simple tortas). These are stripped down tortas. You can get just wiener. Or just eggs and wiener. Or just sausages and eggs. Or just ham. Or just pork. But I go with the La Espanola for the simple reason I can’t make up my mind and for the sencilla reason that Columbus Day was the previous Monday and I didn’t get the day off and I somehow blame Columbus and Spain for eight extra hours on my proverbial time card. That and the idea of egg and Mexican sausage and mozzarella and beans and onions and tomatoes and avocado and jalapenos and more cheese all in one tiny locale sounds like a crazy flirtation with sandwich danger, and I haven’t flirted with danger since the Bush Administration.

It slides in front of me, my La Espanola, like a barge docking. I see that it’s not so much the size of the sandwich, it’s the density— layer after layer of meat and cheese and things. And I have to study it for a moment, catalog the enormity of things. I’ve already hit the condiment buffet, mind you, already created my own little green-red-brown-redder array of salsa cups. Half a torta is a handful, literally. Something else? My La Espanola is, frankly, amazing. I’m not expecting it to be this good, not ready for the surprise, for the discovery.

And I black out. Sort of. I mean, I don’t lose consciousness, but I go into that foggy zone of joy and adrenaline. Call it the Christmas Morning Syndrome. I’m so happy, I can’t think straight and I’m afraid I’m making sounds that should never be heard in Las Meras Tortas. When I come to, half my torta is gone. The other half waits, daring me. A collection of napkin balls litter the table, each a different color. The tips of my fingers hint at chorizo. I glance around to see if I’ve made a fool of myself. Behind me, two men covered in sheetrock mud concentrate on their tortas. A family shops for tacos at the counter. The only person who notices is Pancho Villa, leering from his poster as I dive into the back half of my La Espanola, retreating once again into a very happy place.

So what happens next is this:

Las Meras Torta drives me to Google. Because I can’t get La Espanola out of my mind, can’t shake how all of the things came together, can’t forget the looks of comfortable delight on the sheetrockers’ faces when they launched into their La Mera or Cubana.

I want to know more about tortas, so I search and read and search some more. And I find out that the torta came to be in Mexico in the early 1920s. And I find out that the Mexican Revolution ended about 1920. And Pancho Villa was a revolutionary hero. So it all begins to make sense. The torta must have been a direct result of the Mexican Revolution. The people needed a post-revolution sandwich, a democratic gathering place for things, something everyone could eat. The torta isn’t simply good. It’s important. Pancho would probably agree.

But then again, I’m not a historian. I just like sandwiches.