shelling tacos

My Darwin essay is going to wait for another day.

Once again, food has bumped it from the front page.

The ship's buffet has been my culinary mainstay on recent cruises. I would take most of my meals in the dining room in days of yore. But no more. Both the quality of the food and the service are no longer what they once were.

But the real reason is the type of food that shows up on dining room menus. It is served in four- or five-course dinners. And that is just not how I eat any more.

On most ships, there is a greater variety of food at the buffet than in the dining room, and the food is refreshed regularly. Because cruise ships serve an international clientele (at least, a clientele with international tastes), there is food from almost everywhere in the world on offer.

My go-to choice is always Indian if I cannot find anything else to eat. A lot of the cooks are Indian, and they seem to be given a free hand to spice up their creations.

I often wonder just how "authentic" (even though I despise that question -- splitting the difference) some of the ethnic offerings are. Last week I asked an Indian couple what they thought of the offerings on the Indian portion of the buffet.

The husband reacted realistically. "It is not the best. My wife -- and then my mother -- cook the best Indian food. [His wife beamed at the order.] But I am surprised how good it is."

Even though I have long cooked Indian food, I would never use mine as a standard. I was pleased to hear the Indian food would pass muster in India.

That is not always true with the buffet's ethnic attempts. Today was taco day. In the same spot where the Indian food is usually offered. I know a little bit about Mexican food. But Omar would have been rolling on the floor.

It looked a bit like what would be offered in Alice Springs on Mexican night.

I asked the cook where the tortillas were. He had to check because he was not certain what a tortilla was. There were none.

You can see why I asked. The foundation of the tacos was one of those crispy corn chip shells that mothers use to pass off as tacos in the 1950s to naive children. I can still remember the boxed kits.

But that was just the start. There was no cilantro. No beans. No habanero salsa. In fact, no salsa other than something that looked as if it had been poured out of a Pace Picante jar. I used some sambal chili paste instead.

To be fair, I do not like tacos. I have not had one in Mexico for probably five or six years. And there was no reason I should have expected the tacos on board would be the equivalent of what I can buy on the main street that runs through my neighborhood.

Because it wasn't. One bite convinced me that not even Taco Bell would have made a taco with these ingredients.

So, I wandered over to the temporary home of the Indian dishes and had a delightful okra curry with enough spice to brighten my eyes.

And what is the moral of this little drama?

Morals tomorrow, comida tonight.*


* -- And, yes, that is another of my Sondheim self-amusements.