El Taco Rico.

Enchiladas con guilota at El Taco Rico. © Ryan Schierling

It's fair to say that a large percentage of some of Austin's best restaurants are not restaurants at all. We don't do restaurant reviews, per se, because we eat out so little. We're also not quite entrenched enough in that scene to think that our opining on someone else's food is going to make a lick of a difference in the grand scheme of things. But we do like to share experiences that make a unique impact on us.

El Taco Rico made an impact on us. Finding out about some of the finest Mexican food in a city inundated by more Tex-Mex than you can swing a brick of Velveeta at isn't easy. We have RL Reeves, Jr. over at scrumptiouschef.com to thank for our introduction to Yolanda Sanchez Cornejo and her little blue trailer next to a laundrette in Montopolis.

Don't let the styrofoam plate, plastic fork and paper napkins fool you. For eight dollars, the enchiladas con guilota are a unique treat. Handmade corn tortillas are loved-up in red chile sauce, folded into quarters and topped with cabbage, sliced tomatoes, radishes, avocado, pickled jalapeños, crema and grated aged cotija. I would have been satiated by just the enchiladas, but the butterflied and fried quail mourning dove on top, while tiny and delicate in appearance, was a perfectly-salty, rich and crunchy foil to the fresh layers of deliciousness below.

And when I took my first bite of a barbacoa taco, I actually cursed. Julie laughed at me, and I won't repeat the swears, but I vowed "to never eat another taco de barbacoa anywhere else... because this woman just seriously ruined me."

Weekends are usually reserved for our adventures looking for CFS or chilaquiles, but we've made several trips back to southeast Austin for Sunday lunch at El Taco Rico. It's like a taco tractor-beam, pulling us in.

I am still very self-conscious and a little embarrassed that my Spanish isn't better, because I don't want to butcher anyone's native language, especially when they're feeding me so well. But I'm working on it with every visit... I know enough that I can request Julie's sope sin carne, frijoles y verduras solamente. I can order my enchiladas with small bird, a few tacos de barbacoa, and a pair of Mexican cokes. What I lack in Spanish language skills, I always try to make up with a healthy propina.

The comida perfecto is more than worth it. 

Cucumber salad #5.

Cukes and onions. © Ryan Schierling

We're just going to all agree to call this a "salad." Okay? It's a side, it's a snack, it's stupid simple, and if you don't have a family recipe that is virtually identical, then you should adopt this one at once.

Cucumbers seem to have a natural inclination to be pickled, and on day five of "cucumber salad week" here at FGHD, we're accommodating them. Plus, I get to finally admit that when served raw and plain I'm mostly ambivalent about cukes. They really do have a wonderful flavor, but naked and alone they have a twinge of bland and bitter. However, pair them with vinegar (or lemon juice) and salt they are transformed – voilà! – a thing of elementary elegance.

This post isn't for pickles, but it is a about as close as you can get in 30 minutes or less with a refreshingly pleasant, puckering cucumber slice to show for it. Use the cukes and onions on a salad, or plate a few slices as a side. Around here, though, we've usually managed to pluck all of them out of their icy bath as a crunchy snack before dinner is even served. 

Cucumbers and red onions on the rocks

1 cucumber, peeled in stripes and sliced 1/4" thick
1/2 red onion, sliced thin
1 teaspoon salt
10 ice cubes
1 cup cold water
1/2 cup white vinegar

Put cucumber and onions in a one quart bowl Add ice cubes, then water and white vinegar and salt. Give a quick stir and stick it in the fridge, or just let it sit on the counter, and chill for about 15-30 minutes.

Cucumber salad #4.

Cucumber bruschetta. © Ryan Schierling

When I was a younger man, inexperienced in the ways of life and love and the kitchen, I thought bruschetta was kind of an Italian salsa – a tomato, onion, basil and balsamic-based topping for toasted baguette rounds. I didn't know the garlic-rubbed toasted bread was actually the bruschetta, and it was my first experience with the glory that is balsamic vinegar. There wasn't Mario or Giada or Lidia or Mary Ann on teevee telling me what to do.

Proper terminology or not, I ham-fisted a lot of toasted bread topping with tomato and red onion, garlic and basil, balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and it bolstered my confidence in the kitchen (and in life and love).

That might be a lot to ask of a bruschetta, but I think it's handled it well over the last 20 years, because I've been making adaptations on it ever since. Julie came up with this recipe. We went back and forth a bit, tasting multiple versions and then agreed that I am the crusty, chunky, slightly acerbic, and she is the cool, crunchy sweetness.

Together, somehow, we are a delicate, fresh spoonful on grilled sourdough baguette. Bon appetit. 

Cucumber bruschetta

1 sourdough baguette, cut into 1/2" rounds, oiled and grilled until toasty

4 cucumbers, peeled, center seeds removed, diced

2 scallions, minced

6-8 large basil leaves, chiffonaded

12-15 red cherry tomatoes, cut in half

cracked black pepper

cucumber bruschetta dressing (below)

Mix cucumber, scallions, dressing and a pinch of salt together. Plate bruschetta, spoon cucumber mix on top. Put half a cherry tomato on top of each slice of bruschetta with cucumbers, top with the chiffonade of basil and freshly cracked pepper.

Cucumber bruschetta dressing

1/3 cup white wine vinegar

1/3 cup cup oil (we used equal parts vegetable and olive oil… it seems to emulsify better)

1 tablespoon honey

1/8 teaspoon ground white pepper

1 small pinch kosher salt

1/8 teaspoon dijon mustard

Mix vinegar, honey, pepper, salt and mustard together in a medium-sized bowl. Whisk in a steady stream of oil until emulsified. 

Cucumber salad #3.

Cucumber salad... sandwich? © Ryan Schierling

This will be the only time you ever get a salad sandwich out of me. Mark my words.

I'll make tuna salad, egg salad or even a vegetarian deviled-ham salad (no, for really and seriously), but straight-up salad sandwich reminds me too much of a certain worldwide sub-sandwich chain's Veggie Delight, circa 1991. When you're a poor college student, sometimes the bread and vegetables is all you can afford. Extra lettuce, please!

But this is one of those light, refreshing summer meals that needs no meat. Nothing more than some warm, fresh flatbread, a liberal spackling of homemade hummus and a few spoonfuls of this horiatiki-inspired cucumber salad.

Fold it up like a taco, make sure you've got plenty of napkins, and tuck in.

Cucumber salad, Greek-style

2 cucumbers, peeled, center seeds removed, diced
2 medium tomatoes, cored and diced
1/2 of a small red onion, diced
1 small green bell pepper, seeded and diced
juice of 1 lemon
1 tablespoon fresh oregano, minced
4 ounces feta cheese, crumbled
12 pitted kalamata olives, halved
a pinch of kosher salt, to taste

In a medium-sized bowl, mix the cucumber, tomato, red onion and green pepper. Add a pinch of salt, the juice of 1 lemon and give everything a good toss. Add the oregano, olives, half the feta and mix it all up. When you're ready to serve, crumble the remaining feta on top of the salad.

Our hummus

1 19-ounce can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1 15-ounce can garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed
1 clove garlic
juice of 2 lemons
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon crushed red pepper flakes
3/4 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons tahini
a good pinch of kosher salt

Using a food processor, chop the garlic. Add the cannellini, garbanzo beans and lemon juice. Pulse until a very thick paste begins to form. Add the tahini, cumin, red pepper flakes and salt and continue to mix. While the hummus is pureeing, add a thin, steady stream of olive oil into the food processor until everything is nice and creamy. Let the food processor run for a couple of more minutes, then spoon hummus into a bowl and refrigerate until you're ready to eat.

Cucumber salad #2.

Cucumber and cantaloupe salad with hazelnuts and chevre. © Ryan Schierling

Fresh, earthy, crunchy, creamy. This one is our twist on cucumber-cantaloupe salad.

Don't call it a fruit salad because it will surely disappoint anyone expecting to satisfy a spirited sweet tooth. It gets a good grounding from the rich chèvre, the flavorful crunch of toasted filberts and the provocative hint of rosemary.

This one is easy to prep, but unfortunately it doesn't do well all mixed together in a serving bowl. Those lovely little bits of goat cheese just dissolve away into a creamy mess. Individual portions are prettier. No stirring, just a simple presentation of cucumber and melon with an unexpectedly serious garnish.

Cucumber salad with cantaloupe and chèvre

1 English cucumber, peeled
1/4 cantaloupe
1/4 cup white wine (such as pinot grigio), or the juice of 1 lemon
1/2 cup filbert (hazelnuts) pieces, lightly toasted
2 ounces chèvre
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary leaves, finely minced
Salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste.

Slice and the cucumber and cantaloupe into approximately 1/2" pieces. Gently fold the white wine and/or lemon juice with all the diced cucumber and cantaloupe in a bowl, then let it chill in the fridge for a bit.

When you're ready to serve, stir again lightly with a pinch of salt, then portion it out into smaller serving bowls. Give each a dusting of finely minced rosemary, then top with pieces of chèvre and hazelnuts. If you're feeling it, add a crack of black pepper, too.

Serves 3-4.

Cucumber salad #1.

Cucumber, minimally adorned. © Ryan Schierling

Summer's on the way, so we've been working up a few salads, cool as a cuke.

This is close to a Turkish cucumber salad, or cacick, but not quite. Turks be damned, I added the dill and Sriracha because I can't leave well enough alone. The cucumber cool, the yogurt bright, it was just beggin' for a little slap and tickle. And the dill in our garden is going crazy.

We've done this a few weekends in a row, serving it alongside salt-and-peppered ribeye steaks, grilled over oak coals, sidled up with a mound of garlic mashed potatoes and mushrooms messed with feta. I'd like to think it's a fresh, palate-cleansing wake-up between the heavy courses. Really, it's probably just a punk-ass, back-talkin', middle finger to the rich(ness).

But, honestly, it does well with the protein and starch crowd, a song and dance number between drama bites of meat and potato. And it's easy.

Cucumber salad with yogurt and dill

3 seedless cucumbers, peeled and sliced thin
1 7-ounce container plain yogurt (Fage)
juice of 2 lemons
2 tablespoons minced fresh dill
1 tablespoon minced fresh mint
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon Sriracha hot sauce (optional)
pinch of kosher salt
2-3 tablespoons water

Mix the yogurt and lemon juice well with a whisk. Add dill, mint, garlic, salt, hot sauce (if you want… it adds a lovely subtle back-end heat). I add a few tablespoons of water to thin the sauce out a bit. Toss in the sliced cucumber and mix well. Refrigerate for an hour or so to let the flavors mingle and/or duke it out. Serve with meatses and potato.

Parsley. Sage. Myzithra and thyme.

This isn't Chuck E. Cheese, it's myzithra cheese. © Ryan Schierling

Old-fashioned lampshades with long fringe and soft light glowing over vintage oak furniture. The occasional worn velvet settee. The heady scents of sourdough and garlic perfuming the air. A scoop of tri-colore spumoni ice cream in a fancy little silver dish.

If you're not already thinking "The Old Spaghetti Factory," I'm willing to bet there wasn't one of these fine establishments in your home town.

At The Old Spaghetti Factory you could feed a family of four a hearty dinner complete with sourdough bread, side salads and a little dish of spumoni ice cream at the end, all without going broke. It's been many years since I've been to The Old Spaghetti Factory (not to be confused with other "spaghetti warehouse"-type establishments) and my memories are still fond. The restaurants I've been to have always had that fun cafe buzz and noise about them, while still being warm, comfortable and family-friendly. The locale we frequented when I was a kid living in Spokane included a fabulous old trolly car inside of the restaurant – a wondrous attraction for any seven-year-old. I remember the rhythm of the waitstaff bustling in and out of the kitchen and in these formative years it was an intriguing and special place to be taken out to eat.

The concept being basically "prix fixe" on a budget and the fact that dinner was always served in proper courses – bread on the table, soup or salad, entree, dessert – was a wonderful entry-level education in how to be a good diner. This was not fast food and decidedly not the kind of place where chicken nuggets were featured on the children's menu. In fact, I checked today, and their kids' menu includes all of the same courses, only with an abbreviated selection of entree options on a smaller scale (including a white clam sauce for your children with sophisticated palates).

For an establishment with a price range of $$ on Yelp and middling reviews on the quality of their marinara sauce, there is one thing you can't fault it for – their offering of spaghetti with myzithra (or "mizithra") and browned butter. I do not recall seeing a menu from any other restaurant that has featured this wonderfully-salty aged Greek cheese.

It's an extremely simple dish: spaghetti tossed in browned butter and sprinkled generously with grated myzithra cheese. Aged myzithra is a very dry cheese similar to parmesan, pecorino romano or a particularly arid ricotta salata. But even more so. It doesn't seem to absorb liquid so much as act in opposition to it – which is why copious quantities of browned butter are such a perfect compliment. It reminds me a bit of one of my "simple pleasure eats" for leftover pasta where I toss it in a warm saucepan with some extra virgin olive oil, freshly grated parmesan and salt and pepper to taste. Easy and somehow tremendously satisfying.

Okay, so let me bring this back around... A few days back I was poking around the refrigerator case at Phoenicia Bakery and Deli and came upon a block of aged myzithra. It was like striking nostalgia gold. It's not one of those cheeses you see every day or that most people really have any idea what to do with, so I was pretty darn excited to take a chunk home with me and give my simple pleasure a few substitutions, a la The Old Spaghetti Factory, and share this fabulous fromage treasure with Ryan.

I could have kept it easy with a generous crack of black pepper, but being all grown up and generally unwilling to leave well enough alone... I quartered a clove of fresh garlic to flavor the butter as it browned and topped the finished dish with some of the fresh thyme we had growing gang-busters in the garden. I'm pretty proud of that choice, because I had plenty of fresh herbs to choose from and the thyme turned out to be a bit of flavor magic. We went back for more, and then a little more. Don't skimp on the thyme. The fragrance and flavor with that soft evergreen note get on splendidly with the salty cheese and toasted butter. Splendidly.

A nice bottle of red wine will compliment this entree charmingly, but I can't promise that it, or a side salad, will keep you from the inevitable carb and butter coma that is certain to follow. Spumoni with the candied fruit, my friends... eat at your own risk.