World Series Mexichago Perros Caliente, Negro y Hopping Juan

Already, it’s over. Even before it’s over. Before the Calorie Challenged lady could belt one out. Before I could blog about game 1 grub. Before I could grab seconds. SF bounces. Detroit fails.

With the closing of each MLB retractable roof for the year echoes within yo a somber chord. Sure my FFB team again lost, again. But the greater loss is Latin America’s. Where else on English-speaking HDTV are Latinos con mucho leche so justly, fairly and awesomely kicking booty mejor? A mano-full of stand-ups, that scary pock-marked bad-ass from Machete y J-LO don’t amount to a hill of refried beans compared to what Miguel Cabrera done did solamente.

Bafflingly, from a sport pathological about stat, facts and trivia MC’s triple crown did not merit nearly enough mention the fact that he also crowed the sport’s officially being dominated by Latin American players. Crackerjacks like A-Chap, Mo Rivera, Pujlos, and the aforementioned El Rey are due the same reverence as Mantle, Ruth, Aaron, Robinson, Ripen jr. and Yastrzemski. Maybe stats trump symbolism. Truth in numbers? And yet check out the numbers in 2013 FBB rankings. This is not to suggest some kind of coup de Espanol. No. Rather traveling in the way back machine to Jackie Robinson start and Chief Bender’s up until Kyle Loshe and the aforementioned MC ahora, beisbol at last deserves the title of America’s game. Not the Presidential candidates America or NBC‘s but William Carlos William’s America: from the DR on over and up to icebergs North, South, Central, South Central, and, yes, Canada.

But I mournfully digress. Back to another mixed marriage of gringo and Mexican food for both the World Series 2012 and its sad aftermath.

Backstory: Back in AZ, frustrated by the home team’s security obsessed confines lack of Az-Mex fare I concocted a pinto/cheese/Diamond Back dog on the spot to the “ooos” “ahs” and “down in front”’s of the Dbax faithful. What made this creation so remarkable, other than my willingness to climb to the upper decks to the lone cart selling pinto beans con cheese and then back down to the pricey seats for guacamole is that I kept the cost (per dog) under what a week’s wages in south-of-the-wall.

The IFLAG WS 2012 menu:

2 char-grilled all-beef franks on plain white toasted buns topped with homemade pinto beans (salt and pepper ONLY – no bacon or fatback or liquid smoke)

y cheap store-brand shredded cheddar

y Valentina (baseball stadiums have a contract with Chulo, not mi favrito pero better than Tabasco and/or Hunts taco sauce)


2 char-grilled all-beef franks on plain white toasted buns topped with

fresh chopped NM Green Chile aka The Caca (lightly salted)

y cheap store-brand yellow mustard


Several large cans of Half-Acre Daisy Cutter Ale

World Series Hangover Cure

Bought enough Daisy Cutter for a seven game series. Finished it in four. Enter: the black dog. To cure my MLB malaise and fend off superstition del perro negro, concocted a black-eyed pea breakfast burro- con el appellation Hopping Juan – worthy of blogging.

Hopping Juan “Better Luck Next Year” Breakfast Burro (and/or How come the Tiger’s RP name is pronounced “Ben-wah” like the balls while the team’s called “Dee-troit” like the losers?)

In skillet:

fry up in butter and olive oil in order:

1. black-eyed peas (fresh not canned)

2. diced leftover Gringo El Pastor pork chops

3. egg (scrambled)

4. cheap store-brand shredded cheddar

roll up in flour tortilla

dip in Valentina

eat, repeat, listening to astounding pre-Breaking Bad Cracker cover of pre-AARP Bruce:

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