Limping into a strip mall for shelter from the clattering cars, I see a carnival of colors in front of me. Initially, I assume it's a party supply store, but, getting closer, I see that the reds and greens and yellow and blues are framing images of food: Salvadoran, Guatemalan, Mexican, and... Mediterranean? Hmm.
Coco's International Food.
It is empty but for the proprietress and the cook, who remains behind a divider, and many of the things on the menu are entirely new to me. Pupusas, sure, huevos divorciados, of course, tamales, of course... but then there's also the garnachas, and the pepian de pollo, and the churrasca tipica. The most I can say about any of that is that there's chicken in the second one and third one is barbecued... maybe... probably.
I mess up a hundred times while ordering the churrasca tipica (the maybe probably barbecued one). I order it because it's kind of expensive, so it must be a big platter of something. This no-expectations thing is hard for me. I'm super Type A. Finding a restaurant I don't have preconceived notions about is tough enough. I spend so much time on Yelp and Chowhound and local food blogs and scouring the LA Times that almost every place I see has some rogue phrase from somewhere branded into my mind already.
And even if one falls into my lap like this one did - practically beams down from the sky like a vision - I have trouble ordering totally blind. What if it's - gasp - steak?
Guess what? This is - gasp - steak! (At least partially!) She asks me how I want my beef cooked and I'm halfway through asking her to substitute another kind of meat before I bite my tongue and answer the question: "Medium's fine," I say, which is another leap of faith, because usually ("usually") I get it bloody and rare, practically alive.
But she asks me how I want it cooked as follows: "You want it well-done?" - nodding encouragingly - which makes me think she knows something I don't about the meat. I'm sure she knows everything I don't about the meat, actually, since my grasp of what will be on my plate still consists only of knowledge that it will probably be from a cow.
My agua jamaica comes out first, and I can say, since I do have experience with jamaica drinks, that this one is without a doubt the cinnamoniest, floweriest joy I've ever sucked through a straw.
The platter, when it comes, is not as sprawling and intimidating as I'd pictured it. It's cute; each food item is compact, perfect, and arranged artfully separated from its neighbors. This is a flourish I attribute sometimes to the Japanese and sometimes to five-year-olds who don't like their food items touching.
The plantains (or bananas: a consequence of my not knowing what's on my plate is my not reporting to you precisely what's on my plate) are an absolute crispy cloud of flavor, melting almost like a good macaron on the tongue, but with a satisfying oily bite. The chorizo, though it looks kind of like fruit cake, is a crunchy play on textures, almost like that Lao sausage with the crispy rice.
That triangle of white in the upper corner that looks like those pre-cut Brie wedges at the grocery deli? Fresh, crumbly, moist, salty cheese.
And the steak, that wild card, that meat I never, never order on purpose because it's either bloody or bust, and even then I can only ever manage a few bites of it?
Gone!
Even though it is medium-well, it's pounded thin like chicken-fried steak, and rubbed thoroughly with a savory dry spice blend. While it isn't spicy in the fiery sense, I am provided with a bottle of homemade-looking sauce whose dominant flavor profile is pork fat.
As for the tomatoes, they quickly become the second tomatoes I've ever happily finished!
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