As we walked away from San Xavier, my nephew kept asking why she was so fat. His daddy shusshed him and the matronly, heavy-set Papago (Tohono O'odham) woman who had just sold us the food didn't hear. No harm. No Foul.
It was, indubitably, the best tostada ever. Hands down. A masterpiece of authenticity. Thick crispy tortilla (fry bread) dripping with the hot fat it was fried in then smothered with frijoles, similarly fried in something that you don't want to know about (guaranteed to induce sluggish arterial flow) and then topped with lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese. That Boy, a true Californio, devoured his (sans lettuce and tomatoes) in a hot second.
As delicious as it was, this probably wasn't representative of the original cuisine that morphed into present day, lowest-common-denominator corporate fare at places like Chevy's or Don Jose where the food is barely representative of actual Mexican food. Instead, this is merely one savory incarnation of a melding of cultural tastes dating to pre-Columbian Spain and the Americas that has borrowed as much from other cultures as it left behind on its long and evolutionary journey to the present day.
Taco Bell it wasn't. And thank the Lord for small favors on a sunny October morning.
Como Siempre La Alcantarilla Del Campo común Del Vino