While you’re down at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market having a lunch of $9-for-three tacos (and going back to work—ouch!), we’re kicking it on Catalina Island for a much-needed vacation with the family: four kids, a nana, a grandpa, a mima, a poppy, me and Joe. This is my first trip to Catalina, but Joe’s grandparents lived here for 40 years so he spent a lot of his childhood here.
The 3000-plus person town of Avalon is the only populated place on the island. Tucked into a cove, surrounded by the familiar beautifully austere landscape of dry, Southern California hills—22-miles of land preserved by William Wrigley back in something like 1919—the one-square-mile village is darling to the point of being almost unbelievable. It’s like munchkin land here, lined with teeny tiny cottages hung with American flags; instead of cars, everyone zooms around in golf carts; children run wild and free, powered by chocolate-covered bananas, salt-water taffy and ice cream. Three days a week, a cruise ship unloads tourists that pop-up umbrellas, and lie head-to-toe on the tiny beach. It’s Americana, island-style.
The only downside seems to be the restaurants, which are largely the expected American, wharf-side tourist joints. The type of places that serve pizza, pasta, fried calamari, wings and achingly sweet margaritas the size of your head.
I’m really not a very gracious person when it comes to this side of American culture. As hard as I try to just embrace it for what it is—just enjoy the waterfront views—I’m quick to spiral into a mini, Sysco-fueled depression about the state of our food culture. I’ve read too much Michael Pollan to shake it. (Which is why we packed in with a case of rose and a flat of Modesto peaches—Prosac for the food snob.)
But what Joe and I have both learned in our California travels, is that there is usually one reliable cuisine to search out in the face of American tourism: a Mexican restaurant. Because so much of California is run by immigrant families, if you look hard enough good Mexican food is usually to be found. I’m not saying the produce is organic; but there’s someone home at these spots, if you know what I mean.
Which is exactly what happened on the first day here. Joe’s uncle Dave brought us to the Sandtrap—a restaurant run by a Mexican family—for a happy hour of $1 tacos and $4 margs. The buffet-style arrangement offered a choice of three fillings (spicy chorizo, very good carnitas, and ground beef for a dash of old-school), as well as homemade crispy taco shells or small, antojito-size soft tortillas. A few nicely-made salsas, chopped iceberg lettuce, cheese, onions, cilantro for toppings—a delicious dinner was to be had and I was well-behaved. The Sand Trap also makes a great Mexican breakfast.
The moral of the story? Tacos will save us all. But we already knew that.