Chilaquiles for Breakfast
Eddie led me down Paseo del los Héroes
to the east, past Plaza Rio (a shopping mall
that, as I would discover later in the day, harbored
a wondrous place), to Hotel Camino Real. The
hotel's several stories were yellow, purple,
and hot pink.
"We're not going in there, are we?" I asked
Eddie.
"This is where Gogo's sister got married," he
said, as if by pointing out that our friend's
family had chosen this location for such a special
event he could convince me to go in. It worked
-- I've been to some of the swanky, classy
functions hosted by Gogo's family, and knowing
they chose this place was all the proof I needed
to enter, whether or not I found the colors to
be hideous.
The inside of the five-star hotel was an elegant,
muted version of its garish outdoor appearance.
We went up an escalator to the main lobby, where
the concierge -- a bilingual young man -- greeted
us. Eddie asked if the hotel's lobby bar
was open. Rather than raising a brow at what
could only be two Americans with a bad case of
alcoholism, the concierge informed us that the
bar would be open later that evening, "with live
music," and suggested we eat breakfast in the
restaurant.
Eddie reminded me that we'd be drinking
in a few hours, which helped end my lamentation
for our missing mimosas. We headed to the hotel's
restaurant, Azulejos.
We were led to a table against a lemon yellow
wall. The sun made its way into the room through
rectangular skylights, reflecting off the walls
to give everything a bright glow. Wedges of watermelons
-- a three-dimensional frieze -- adorned the
vibrant purple wall at the back of the room in
a wavy horizontal line two wedges thick. Above
my head, more food decorations were attached
onto square boards that were split into four
sections -- each section contained a basketball-sized
sculpture of a fruit (pineapples, strawberries,
mangos, and more).
A besuited waiter appeared with menus written
in English and Spanish and informed us of the
breakfast buffet bar (all you can eat for five
dollars). Eddie ordered mole enchiladas à la
carte, and I decided to try chilaquiles for the
first time. When our food arrived, I picked at
Eddie's mole -- a chocolatelike sauce --
and he helped finish my chilaquiles, which seemed
to be the breakfast version of nachos -- chips,
cheese, and tomatillo sauce. We lingered over
our freshly squeezed juices until it was time
to search for beer -- around noon.
The Czech Republic of Tijuana
Outside the hotel, we hailed a taxi.
"Cervecería Tijuana, por favor," Eddie
said to the man in the driver's seat. We
traveled a long way (ten minutes was long compared
to our previous ride) into residential streets.
On the hillside were colorful shacks interspersed
with large homes. Most of the buildings lining
the long stretch of road we traveled appeared
dry, dusty, and dilapidated.
Consorcio Cervecero de Baja California is the
name of the company that makes Cerveza Tijuana,
more commonly known as TJ Beer. It's located
on Boulevard Fundadores (heading south on Avenida
Revolución, you can turn right onto Fundadores,
but we took a different route). We arrived at
a structure; with its fresh coat of paint, it
was the best-looking building in the neighborhood.
Out of the cab and facing the yellow-and-green
edifice, I pointed at the bronze plaque affixed
to the wall. The plaque was engraved with an
animal figure that resembled a cross between
a lion and griffin. Eddie translated the words
imprinted on the crest: Consulate of the Czech
Republic. To the right of the bronze crest were
enormous green doors, like those allowing entrance
into a barn. Eddie greeted the security guard
standing in front of the doors. The guard took
a moment to check with his superiors, verified
that our presence was acceptable, and allowed
us access to the main office. The brewery itself
was to our right as we walked inside.
Though anyone can arrange a group tour (of around
30 people), Eddie had managed to orchestrate
a private tour. The plant manager, Pedro Iturrios,
ended a meeting with his employees to greet us.
He wore fine pressed slacks with a black turtleneck
sweater. His clothing and disposition, along
with his mustache, salt-and-pepper hair, and
wire-rimmed glasses, gave him the appearance
of a man comfortably in charge. Iturrios's
English was far better than my Spanish -- which
is to say he can actually communicate in the
language -- but we still both appreciated Eddie's
deft interpretations.
We began in the warehouse area just past the
front doors. Iturrios shared some of the brewery's
history. This cervecería's owner,
José Antonio González, grew up
in the business -- his father worked for Cervecería
Modelo, the company that makes Corona -- an internationally
popular beer. When José Antonio González
decided to open his own brewery, he traveled
the world in search of what he considered to
be "pure beer." He found it in the Czech Republic,
in the bottle of a Pilsner Urquell, which contains
only water, malt, hops, and yeast.
"We got the secrets from them," said Iturrios. "Our
malt and hops come from the Czech Republic, but
the water is Mexican." Originally, González
recruited a Czech brewmaster, who later trained
González's staff. Victor González,
the brewmaster's best student (and no relation),
replaced his teacher, allowing the Czech man
to go home. TJ Beer is made in accordance with
German purity laws, the same laws by which the
Czech's Pilsner makers abide. Iturrios pointed
to a poster of the Pilsner lady (the buxom blonde
cartoon found on the Pilsner logo) and said, "This
is the mother. González is the father,
and these," he waved his arm over the cases of
bottles stacked against one wall, "these are
the babies."
On another wall, chairs and tables were stacked
to the very high ceiling. Apparently, when patrons
purchase kegs for a party, the brewery lends
the furniture for a nominal price. Iturrios led
us down a handful of steps into the brewery.
We walked past an I Love Lucy-ish bottle-cleaning
machine overflowing with soap bubbles and into
a capacious room. Hulking metal canisters, resembling
giant toy tops with legs, towered above us; the
room had the feel of something with which I am
not familiar -- a very clean kitchen. Against
one wall was a small desk, over which hung blue
and gold portraits of the Lady of Guadalupe.
Having never been inside a brewery before, I
was curious to know how "babies" were made. Iturrios
explained that malt (shipped from the Czech Republic)
must be ground and put into a "big pot, where
it's boiled." This creates a sweet, malt
liquid. To the malt liquid, yeast is added. Then
I learned something I must have missed in Biology
101: the yeast eats the sugar and excretes alcohol.
So basically, beer is the excrement of yeast.
I tried not to think about this for too long,
preferring to sum up the whole process in one
word -- fermentation. TJ Beer takes several weeks
longer to ferment than many other brands because
it is chilled during the process of fermentation,
which slows down all that busy yeast. I placed
one hand against the belly of one of the imposing
containers -- cold to the touch.
Once everything is boiled and "yeasted," hops
are added. From the desk beneath Lady Guadalupe,
Iturrios grabbed two glass jars -- one filled
with malt grains, the other with hops. He unscrewed
the lid and invited us to smell the contents
of each jar. Those little hops buds smelled like
beer. Iturrios said hops add bitterness and
floral aroma; they also act as a preservative.
I've never been a big fan of beer. Even when
I partied in TJ as a teenager, I went for the
margaritas, bypassing the bubbly, bitter, nasty-smelling
stuff. Learning of the process made me curious
about how (and where) vodka is made --
now there's an alcohol I can get my
mouth around (with the right mixers, of course).
But there was more to this brewery than making
alcohol. I asked Iturrios about the clips I had
noticed hanging from metal wires that ran around
the perimeter of the room. Apparently, the owner
is a dedicated supporter of the arts. Every three
months he hosts a gallery opening. He chooses
the work of local artists, allowing them to use
the space for exhibiting, thus transforming the
brewery into a gallery space. After the public
show, an artist's work remains to be appreciated
by employees of the brewery until the next show
is hung. Currently, no work was showing; Iturrios
explained this was because a show had come down
and the next artist had not yet begun to hang
his work.
A man in a white jumpsuit and what looked like
a white shower cap on his head appeared with
three frosted glass mugs. I expected him to pull
a few bottles from his snazzy suit, but he handed
two of the mugs to Iturrios and held the remaining
mug beneath the spout (like the kind you might
find on an office water cooler) located on the
side of one of the towering cold vats. An opaque
golden liquid poured from the spout.
"Is this safe to drink?" I asked.
"Oh yes," said Iturrios. "This is the freshest
beer you will ever taste."
"But is it done?" Earlier, Iturrios had
explained that the last stage in the baby-making
process was to filter out the hops and malt,
then kill the yeast -- this beer was chilling
with organisms still eating and excreting their
way through the malt. Something so disgusting had to
be dangerous.
"Yeast is good for you," Iturrios said, once
we each had a mug full of light amber beer in
hand. "We only take it out because it makes the
beer cloudy."
I took a swig. Then I downed the whole thing.
It was nice to drink something this cold and
buzz-inducing at high noon on a hot day. I finally
understood thousands of beer commercials I'd
seen that touted refreshment in association with
a beverage I had viewed as bitter to taste and
vile on one's breath. I thanked the man in
the white jumpsuit and followed Iturrios into
the "pub" half of the "brewpub."
