Los Andes BakeryWhile in line at Los Andes hunger took full possession of my senses and I ordered a sandwich, four beef empanadas, and two cheese ones. And then I got back in line and ordered a pastry, which I forgot about on the first round. The sandwich was steak layered with avocado, lettuce, tomato, and a thick schmear of mayonnaise. You may think this combination odd or repulsive even, but in my world, all sandwiches should have avocado and mayo (except PB&J – there are limits to my mayo-avocado crush).
My appetite was satiated, however I couldn’t resist taking a peek at my empanadas, all tightly nestled into a white cardboard box, carefully Scotch taped at the seams, just like a birthday present. I took a bite, and I have to admit, although painfully, that I was the tiniest bit disappointed. Perhaps they were too cold. Perhaps the crust wasn’t as delicate as I remembered. Perhaps I had built them up too much in the months since I’d first had them…Perhaps my friend had a secret Chilean password that got her especially prepared empanadas for her party. Anyway, the next day there was not a crumb to eat in the new apartment, except for the leftover pastries. They were warmed up in the oven and actually resurrected quite nicely.
EmpanadasI feel inspired after this experience to seek out empanadas in Boston and also to prepare the Nicaraguan version (as soon as I finish unpacking): pastelitos – olive and raisin studded as well, but pork-based, deep-fried, and sugar-coated. Doesn’t that sound scrumptious?
P.S.
No, I do not know where the beef in my empanada came from, I regret to say, and even though they were tasty, I have been worrying about it. I feel worse about it than when I forgot it was Lent and ate meat on Fridays. But please understand that moving is a deeply traumatic occurrence in a person’s life and she cannot be blamed from veering off the straight and narrow path.
