3/10/2004 » Food, Musings

I stopped by a Venezuelan restaurant in East Village today for my very first taste of arepas, crisp corn pitas stuffed with beans, pungent cheeses and other fillings. The red, blue and yellow Venezuelan flag was all over the walls and ceiling with its semicircle of stars. The restaurant felt like a homey community kitchen, workers and well-wishers outnumbered customers (moi) eight to one.

I learned a new word: caraqueña, 'from Caracas.' Spanish has fabulous hometown appellations: 'costaricense' from Costa Rica, 'nuyorican' for Puerto Rican from New York. The Beatles get extra credit for conjuring, and conjugating, 'Liverpudlian.' 'New Yorker' just doesn't have the same ring.

It's funny how pitas have independently evolved multiple times throughout history. Sort of like a friend used to say: 'all food tends towards burritos.' These wraps are just too dang convenient. I didn't want to be Mexicentric and ask for horchata, which is like asking for a red bean drink at a Korean joint. Fortunately, they had chicha, a milkshake-thick version of that cinnamon and rice water concoction and just as delicious.

I didn't much care for the arepas, the flavors were arid, the crispiness off-putting. But the owner lingered when she should have been brisk, her coffee eyes unwavering. Sometimes the mouth moves while the eyes remain still, and words seem like troublesome children clattering far, far away. Way in the back, someone turned down the volume.