Go Take Mofongo for a Walk

I wrote the following account of my experience with mofongo several years ago when I was still living in New York. The greasy spoon described below was called Spanish American Food, and has since closed. One warning- try not to read this while eating lunch, as some of the descriptions are especially foul:

The naked lightbulbs ringing the window of my neighborhood cuchifrito beckoned me to the porcine viscera displayed in its window. The lightbulbs highlighted every stringy tendon and shiny bulge of cartilage. The pig parts festered in yellow pools of oil and animal run-off in steaming hot plates. The interior of the window had a patina of grease and insect debris that formed a smeary halo over the vats.

I grabbed a take-out menu and scanned it hoping for some exotic item to savor. I was baffled by “old hen soup,” avocado milk shakes, octopus salad, and the endless list of fried organ meats. But my eyes were drawn again and again to the word mofongo with the inviting phrase "Try it!" listed beside it in parentheses. It sat all by itself on the menu, with no modifiers and no explanation as to its constituent parts- just that simple exhortation.

I sheepishly ordered a fried plaintain and slinked away ashamed that I lacked the courage to order something less appetizing. As I peeled away the foil around the plaintain, my mind kept fixating on mofongo. I said it aloud to myself. It was a fun word to speak- an almost nonsensical word that I would surely have delighted at as a child. But it did not seem to promise a dish that was the least bit savory.

I thought about mofongo over the next few months. I looked up mofongo recipes on the internet and found that most called for green, unripened plaintains and pork cracklin', or chicharron in a garlic sauce. I imagined this as the sort of peasant food that would fortify the body through an afternoon of sweating through a guayabera, while hacking away at stalks of sugar cane.

As I walked home from work one day, I was finally seized with the desire to have mofongo for dinner. I marched purposefully up the avenue towards the cuchifrito, ignored the window caked with fly wings and antennae and queued up for my order. Most of the customers seemed to be ordering cuban sandwiches and tripe mondongo soup. The sandwich press was constantly becoming more crowded and oily as the swiss cheese melted and rivulets of oil streamed down the sides of each hero roll.

Then it was my turn. "Mofongo, please." The counter man blinked in disbelief. He recovered and then told me that it would take about ten minutes to prepare. He then dispatched one of the countermen into the back to begin the preparation. Another customer, an aged man with gray stubble and leathery skin, sighed through his gums and what remained of his teeth "Aiii, mofongo! You'll sleep for days after eating that!" I laughed quietly and felt my cheeks flush.

During the next five to seven minutes the cuchifrito was filled with the din of pounding. It sounded like metal striking a wooden cutting board repeatedly. I was horrified as I imagined pig snout, pig tails, and pig hooves being manhandled into bacon bits for my mofongo. Later I realized that this was simply the sounds of the green plaintains being rendered into a mash.

Even at this late juncture, I was still grappling with the idea that chicharron, or pork cracklings, were to be a featured part of this dish. I figured that when worked into the plaintain mash, the most disgusting properties of the chicharron would be mellowed.

But then the counterman emerged from the back of the kitchen, sweaty and flushed from his labor, he reached over for one of the vats that contained what I had considered to be the most unholy and mysterious of all the animal parts. The vat was stacked to overflowing with dark brown, almost blackened, bark-like husks of pigskin, that concealed an inch thick layer of what appeared to be bubbly compartments of fat.

Then sounds of hacking followed by intensified pounding echoed throughout the establishment. The two other men behind the counter continued assisting new customers, pressing cuban sandwiches, and blending exotic batidos amidst the clamor. Finally after fifteen minutes a take home container was produced on the counter. Then one of those "we are happy to serve you" Grecian urn coffee cups was filled with a ladle full of a red soupy sauce dotted with slicks of yellow oil. I paid my $3.00 and scurried home anxious to try mofongo before I lost my nerve.

As soon as I got home, I went straight to the kitchen and got a spoon. I cautiously peeled back the light cardboard lid covering the foil container- the odor wafted up and quickly expanded to fill the entire apartment. I gagged slightly and opened the kitchen window to help clear the air. I peered into the container and saw that the mofongo had been shaped into a mini bundt cake mass. I took the cup of oily, garlicky tomato ooze and poured it over the mash. I dipped the very tip of the spoon into the fetid pile for a cautious bite. The plaintains were bland and starchy with no hint of the sweetness that I love in ripe plaintains. The pork crackling was not crunchy at all, but rubbery and unyielding. I had hoped the taste would be a cousin of bacon, but instead it tasted of salt and decay. The garlic sauce provided the strongest flavor, but it was a brutish garlic sauce that tasted of old oil- like oil that had been drained from previous meat-stacked hot plates to be given a second or even third life in soups and sauces.

The smell must have penetrated into the deeper interiors of my apartment. My roommate came bounding down the corridor.

"Dude!” he bellowed, “What is that awful smell?"

"That . . . is the stink of mofongo," I proclaimed, feigning an amused and cavalier attitude. "It's green plaintains with pork cracklings and garlic
sauce. I think it's  either Dominican or Puerto Rican."

"Well, that sounds utterly rank,” he declared. “Is it any good though?"

"No, it's awful- the smell reminds me of Dahmer's apartment."

"That's great, dude. But if it's so awful, then why are you still eating it?"

"I have to have a few more bites before it's condemned."

"Oh, so you think that by the third or fourth bite you might understand why the Dominicans like it?"

"That’s my hope,” I replied as I sighed wearily.

I dug in for three more bites recoiling with each dreaded spoonful. My roommate just laughed at me and walked away. Finally, I closed up the takeout container and triple bagged it. I tipped back some mouthwash and scraped at my tongue with my toothbrush. Then I headed out to the city trashcan on the corner of our block.

I had to take mofongo out for a walk.

Our apartment aired out about forty minutes later.

-AC