Cafe Ollin

Meet the cemita. Bigger than a Big Mac, but much, much tangier and less dangerous to your overall well-being. Hailing from Puebla, Mexico, it now resides at Cafe Ollin, in East Harlem, where the azure walls and lovingly tended plants positively offset the fact that we're pretty sure our server was wearing a slip and nothing else.

Our juancho cemita came stuffed with chorizo, potatoes, cactus (soft and tasting like a bitter green pepper), jalapenos, onions, avocado, lettuce, beans, papalo, and oaxacan cheese (as milky and pleasantly stringy as mozzarella). We nearly dislocated our jaw taking the first bite.

Our azteca tacos were similarly plump, with many of the same ingredients, along with epazote (a pungent herb also known as pigweed) and tomatoes; everything was triple-wrapped in tortillas. Triple-wrapped! To drink, we went with our usual Jarritos, where we're seriously contemplating buying some stock, and the unusual (for us) horchata, made with almond milk, sugar, vanilla, nutmeg, and cinnamon, vaguely reminiscent of eggnog but thinner and refreshing.

In Nahuatl, "ollin" refers to the relationship among the sun, the earth, and humanity. Our meal evoked a harmonious earthiness as well --- after all, this is the kind of food that puts meat on your bones --- which perhaps explains our waitress's outfit: here you're supposed to feel rooted and utterly at home.
oof!