Posted by Corey Mintz in restaurant review, south american on October 13, 2007 at 9:15 am
Perola’s
247 Augusta Avenue
416-593-9728
A few months ago I discovered Irma in the back of Perola’s market, grinding out beautiful pupusas. Tragically it was too late. She was retiring. Just as I was settling into the solitary ritual of wolfing down greasy hunks of cornmeal, languidly licking my fingers at the corner of Baldwin and Augusta, while watching Kensington market blossom early on a Sunday morning, it was over.
Well huzzah it’s on again! Aime and Carla are in the back of Perola’s Spanish grocery store, squeezed in between towers of tinned peaches, pork rinds and super-sweet Mexican soda. And while I’m sad to see Irma gone, I’m glad to have them here. They’re cooking up some juicy, crispy, spicy Mexican dishes: Namely, tostada, combinadas, tamales, chicharron, chili rellenos and pozole. I don’t really know what everything is and I attempt to convince the ladies that I’m an affable fellow who will eat anything they care to cook for me. But they’re so intent on the soft sell that they refuse to push anything. They just shrug and suggest that the combinadas are good, seemingly apathetic about my buying, eating, or liking one. An enthusiastic customer seconds their nomination.
The combinada ($2.50) is soft shell taco, stuffed with sweet, braised pork and cheese, grilled on the flat top. I’m offered two grades of hot sauce, regular (orange) or crazy (yellow). It turns out they’re both really fucking hot and the combinada is gobbled just as quickly as a tamale ($2) is served up to me. It’s a sweet, fluffy pillow of steamed cornmeal topped with mole-soaked chicken and it adapts even better to the crazy hot sauce. I lap it up and get an extra to go.
On my next trip I convince myself that perhaps a tostada ($3), sort of an open-shell taco, won’t fall apart in my hands and make me look like a fool. It comes piled high with juicy stewed chicken (Carla chastises me for gauchely requesting pork on a tostada) and lettuce. And I make it more than two thirds through before it collapses into a delicious Towering Inferno. Plump, mild poblano peppers ($3) are stuffed with Oaxaca and fried in batter, shaming anything ever dubbed a “jalapeno popper”.
The pozole ($3) will be a good source of heat during winter morning excursions to the market. It’s strewn with limey lettuce, shreds of pork, radishes, and soft, half-sprouted chickpeas. And chicharron ($2.50) turns out to be a sublime fried version of my best friend pork fat.
Like a beach, the shop fills up after noon as the surrounding streets become choked with tourist traffic. 11am is the time to grab tamales for a serene, non-shoulder-rubbing snack. Again, like under the previous regime, I’m mocked for bringing my own plate. The locals guffaw like I’m some crazy gringo trying to pan for gold with a cane and monocle. That’s okay. As soon as I step in off Augusta Avenue it’s clear that I’m no longer in mi barrio. There’s no real chance of me inconspicuously fitting in to the Mexican enclave so why not revel in being a gaudy tourista.
