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Just got back from a week in Puerto Vallarta, the quaint fishing village/sun-kissed paradise that was put on the map when Elizabeth Taylor accompanied Richard Burton there in the early 1960's when he was filming Night of the Iguana. He played a drunk throughout most of the film and well-to-do Americans were like "that place looks beautiful and you can booze it up in town for cheap so let's go" and they have been flocking there ever since.
It is the most laid back place you will ever have the chance to visit, with a daily agenda that always starts with a relaxing Breakfast al Fresco. That is to say if by "Breakfast" you mean "Bloody Mary" and "al Fresco" is loosely interpreted as "sprawling under a palapa on the beach wearing nothing but a Speedo and SPF 60 sunscreen". (Do yourself a favor and don't try to visualize me doing that.)
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| Imagine Hearing Waves Breaking and Seagulls Screeching, If You Can |
Our favorite place is called La Palapa and it is one of the finest restaurants in town with the added advantage of being located directly on the beach so you can kick off your flip flops and bury your toes in the sand while being serenaded by a winsome Spanish guitarist whose soulful eyes reflect the flames of the torchlit perimeter. The fish is incredibly fresh. When you order it they throw a line into the sea and yank out your dinner and slap it on the grill before it has had a chance to say adios to its schoolmates. Seriously, the food rivals some of the best I've ever had and you can have a margarita and an appetizer and that line caught fish and a flaming coffee for something like $500 pesos which last week was about 42 bucks. That includes the propina (tip) and impuesta (tax). The guitarist was so overly gratified by the twenty peso bill I gave him (somewhere south of two bucks) that I gave him twenty more. (I wonder how you say "sucker" en Espanol?)
Another awesome find was Joe Jack's Fish Shack, home of the tastiest fish tacos I've ever had the pleasure of devouring. Lightly battered and fried red snapper in home-made tortillas with cabbage slaw and tomatillo cream will improve your outlook on life dramatically. Coco's Kitchen has a ridonkulously palate pleasing smoked salmon and cream cheese omelette served with a weird Mexican biscuit. (I've pretty much decided that all baked goods in Mexico are lardy yet strangely dry and tasteless so I avoid them unless forced on me by well-intentioned ex-pats who think I just need to develop a taste for them. I don't think I will ever enjoy chewing faintly sweet, mealy dog biscuits, but I appreciate their encouragement and belief in my ability to change.) I'm a little embarrassed to say I love Fajita Republic, which I suspect locals loathe as much as I do Chili's or Chik-fil-hate, because I am positive an American wearing a sombrero and a fake droopy black mustache came up with the concept, which is kind of an On the Border across the border.
Have I mentioned Garbo yet? It is a smart martini bar with live jazz or show tunes which the barman and owner, Hermann, presides over with gracious hospitality and a heavy pour. We love that place and usually throw back handfuls of Japanese peanuts while we are there. (Not sure what makes them Japanese -- perhaps they are good at math and science, smoke a lot of cigarettes and live for karaoke.) Garbo also sports the most workingest a/c unit in PV. Sometimes it is so refreshingly cold in there I have to throw a serape over my tank top. All of my friends refer to it as Garbo's but there isn't really a Garbo so it doesn't belong to her but I never correct them until just now in this blog because I don't like to be perceived as a know-it-all. (The universe just threw back its head and roared with mean-spirited laughter).
In conclusion, I would like to posit that Puerto Vallarta is an unrecognized, formidable force in the food world at which I would encourage anyone to vacation and dine. I personally have never seen a decapitated body in a shallow grave anywhere near there so I am sure it is perfectly safe. (Plus their commercially baked bread loaves are made by a company named Bimbo and seeing their delivery vans is always good for a juvenile chortle until I think of those awful Kardashians and then I am depressed and have no recourse but to head back to Garbo no 's.)
Hasta la vista, baby. La cuenta por favor.
