Essays

Tucked away in the lower right-hand corner of New Mexico, in the city of Carlsbad, the Pecos River Café serves what is, to my taste buds, the most flavorful and, if you like, and I do, hottest green chili in the state. Or anywhere else, for that matter. The fiery, emerald-hued purée is offered on the breakfast menu, specifically with the Burrito Pronto, a rolled-and-wrapped flour burrito stuffed with scrambled eggs, hash brown potatoes, and a choice of bacon, sausage or meatless. The entire dish is covered with a choice of chili: green or red, both mild, or the aforementioned, and very addictive, hot green. For another dollar, and it’s the best dollar you’ll spend in New Mexico, the dish is smothered with cheese. The final presentation includes a garnish of ‘salad’, some shredded lettuce and chopped tomato. And, as I am partial to keeping my oral senses a while longer, I always ask for a side of sour cream, just the thing to keep the fire in check.

I discovered the café some years back, when I was new to Carlsbad. I had foresworn the usual pancake breakfast several years earlier, when, having just moved to New Mexico – Las Cruces – I discovered the wonders of all things piquanté, Spanish for spicy, hot, sharp. While strolling one Saturday in Ciudad Juárez, northern Mexico, a friend introduced me to habanero peppers, arguably the hottest, most piquanté little orbs on the planet. Though sweating, crying and ingesting more cerveza than I had in the previous year, I was hooked. That was back in ‘94. Since then, no meal, and I mean no meal is complete without at least a small conflagration on the palate. I became obsessed, so much so that at one point, some years later, I moved back to New Mexico because I missed the authenticity of the cuisine… and the peppers! Seriously. (This was decided after a long and hard debate over the merits of ‘Mexican’ restaurants, with names like Chili’s and Chi-Chis, with the most piquanté item being the bottle of hot sauce on the table, and no one, save the bussers, speaking Spanish.)

Now then, truth be told, as anyone who has traveled extensively into the nooks and crannies of most anywhere can tell you, the best places to eat local fare are never in restaurants, never advertised and never, ever in good neighborhoods. I learned this one day back in 1995 when a friend, a Franciscan friar, tired of my harangues about eating at Denny’s, took me to his old neighborhood, where, next to a broken down, rusted hulk of an ancient school bus, we ate breakfast in the extra room of someone’s home, serving – until the authorities found out – as a tiny cantina, a haven of home cooking amongst the corporate culinary denizens of white bread America. We were greeted and served by an old friend of my friend, a large ex-con, eye patch in place, prison tattoos galore, but with the sweetest disposition when it came to his mama’s cooking. He steered me to the green chili burrito – even then it was in the stars that this was to be my fait accompli de la vie culinaire, a self-fulfilling prophecy par excellence. I never looked back, except to write down the address.

But all that changed, as I found when I moved to Carlsbad in 2004. Gone was the school bus, as was my friend, now stationed in the hinterlands of somewhere-out-there. I needed my chili fix, so I did the most logical thing: I began finagling invitations to the homes of Mexican-American friends, who apologized over and over that “…it’s just leftovers,” or, “I’m sorry, it’s nothing fancy.” Nothing indeed. What these people whipped up in fifteen minutes would make La Guide Michelin think twice about its rating system. In the space of six months, I must have visited one friend’s home more than I did my own, always on the pretext of just stopping by to say hello. At lunchtime. I was introduced to carne asada, or asado, depending on whose home I’d invade that day. Cubes of beef or pork, sautéed in a mild to fiery red chili that was nothing short of amazing, and on short notice. Tripa was another favorite. Tripe, stewed long in my old friend, chili verde, rendering it so soft, so wondrous… so darn good, served on a freshly made tortilla, with salsa piquanté and an apology. If this were my friends’ ideas of fast food, I very much wanted to try the real thing, an actual planned meal.

I was taught the intricacies of red versus green, in New Mexico called Christmas – ordering both red and green together - and chile versus chili – “Ah, who cares, it all tastes the same!” a friend exclaimed one day, when the conversation turned to semantics instead of food. And they steered me to that oasis of breakfast in the desert, where, I was told, the green chili is “almost as good as my mother’s”, a claim I could never make, my late mother being a Brooklyn native, who adored all things zesty, but never puréed the green stuff, preferring instead bottled sauces and Passover horseradish.

The Pecos River Café.

My first time there, for breakfast, I dined with my friend, with whom I had walked those Juárez streets many years before. He was an Englishman, and had lived in the southwest for almost forty years. His palate had been neither dimmed nor dulled by countless plates of offal and other meats stewed in blazing sauces, but it had been made cynical, jaded. He ordered the pancakes, and I provided him a side of Bronx cheer. When my meal arrived, he made a comment about the size of the portion, being somewhat bigger than a tire on his brother’s Cadillac. I smiled, smugly, at his remark and repast, and dug in. Being my nascent visit, I hadn’t yet thought of the sour cream, and thus spent next the ten minutes or so after my first forkful trying my best to flag down a server, or any human being with connections to the kitchen. This, coupled with wiping away tears, blowing my nose and trying to breathe made for a memorable introduction to the café’s signature dish. Also, my friend’s admonition of, “You’re a fool for ordering the hot stuff”, made me just want to eat more of it. And so I did. It was nirvana, spiritual, incendiary and synergistic. It was great!

Whenever I was nearby – nearby being a relative term, say, Denver, northern California or North Carolina - I would detour to Carlsbad, and, if my arrival were early enough, would stop there as I entered town for an appetite satisfying plate of fuego con sabor: fire with flavor. Whatever the time of year, I would leave there sated, warm inside, and seeing the world through more charitable, though moist, eyes.

It was while on a job that I was graced with meeting the owner of the café, Diana R. Cerny. I had been hired by the town’s dance school to spend a Saturday photographing all the kids in their best dance apparel. When Mrs. Cerny and her daughter approached the background, a friend leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “She owns the Pecos River Café.” I needed no further impetus. During the 15 seconds or so of down time between dancers, I introduced myself, and gushed forth praise about everything I had ever eaten in her establishment. Given the fact that I order only one dish there, fifteen seconds was more than adequate for me to describe my exultant feelings toward her cuisine. She said to make sure I said hello next time there. Which I did. (Full disclosure: I did once order a hamburger at the café, but it was past breakfast time. I enjoyed it thoroughly, but it was like dating Phyllis Diller after having gone out with Carmen Electra. A solid standby, but without the spice. Literally.)

Anyway, that Saturday, I had photographed something on the order of three hundred kids, and knew I would be spending several days, growing bug-eyed, glued to my computer, editing and printing each individual image. Serendipitously, the photo of Mrs. Cerny’s daughter was right on top of the pile. I never knew how that happened, as she was photographed at least two hours into the event. No matter. I know had the excuse of being able to dance into the café the following Monday morning, envelope in hand, appetite at the ready. I was raised to be a courteous and respectful member of society, so when she offered breakfast, gratis, I did not insult her by declining, but merely said, “Thank you.” Inside, I was beside myself: Hot green chili, FOR FREE!

Over the years, I have traveled far and wide, driven in all 48 contiguous states, eaten countless meals billed as local or indigenous fare. But nowhere in this country, and I might as well throw in Mexico while I’m at it, have I ever encountered anything coming close to Diana Cerny’s hot green chili. On more than one occasion, I thought I was approaching utopia only to realize I was projecting. There was the place in Gallup, NM, a fine establishment, with the requisite fresh tortilla chips and the watery salsa, chock full of cilantro. The little hole-in-the-wall carneceria, slipped into a Denver back alley, with great tripa in green sauce, and not an English-speaker among the bunch behind the counter. And the taco shop just north of downtown Phoenix, with great moles and fresh barbacoa. But real, homemade, hot green chili, aka chili verde piquanté ... No, not there, or anywhere else outside of southeastern New Mexico. The search continues.

The Pecos River Café is located at 409 South Canal Street, Carlsbad, NM 88220

Hours are: Monday - Friday, 6:30 a.m. – 2:00 p.m. Phone: 505-887-8882

Take out is available, No catering, No smoking

Pecos River Café has been in business for a shade over ten years, and is the most reliable spot for breakfast weekday mornings. (It is closed weekends.) When Diana Cerny’s parents started their restaurant in Albuquerque, NM, it was called the 4th Street Café, and was the ‘hot spot’ for downtown breakfast in the Duke City. Frequented by lawyers, students, phone company employees, a line would form early mornings, and at lunchtime as well, to partake of the Cernys’ home cooking and lunch specials. For twenty years, they operated the 4th Street Café, with Diana working there for seven of those years, the majority of the time in the kitchen, learning to prepare her mother’s famous soups, and breads and chili, all homemade.

The menus at the Pecos River Café are the same ones used by her parents in Albuquerque. In fact, Diana’s parents helped her in opening the café in 1998. And, while she doesn’t bake her mom’s bread there, the menu does feature the elder Mrs. Cerny’s freshly prepared soups and chili, daily. The Burrito Pronto, smothered in chili, as well as the Huevos Rancheros, are the two most popular breakfast items.

The Pecos River Café has been voted the Best Breakfast Burrito in Carlsbad three times, and in 2005, Diana Cerny and her staff received an award from New Mexico department of health, honoring the eatery with being one of the cleanest in the state.