beyond tacos : Botana, a reminiscence: when ecstasy came in dented aluminum tray.

If you look in a Spanish-English dictionary, you will find several definitions for botana , including a stopper for a leather wine bag or a Band-Aid for a fresh wound. But when I was growing up, the term was used to describe the free food served outside of bars in Nogales, Sonora, on Saturday and Sunday afternoons.

I’m not certain how this custom began. Some say this weekend bonus was created during Prohibition to attract thirsty customers across the border; others insist botana was invented to sober up drunks just enough so that they could order another round. Either way, it particularly appealed to my family, a group that not only invented endless excuses to celebrate together but wholeheartedly subscribed to the culinary principle that appetizers have an enhanced flavor when they cost nothing and come in limited portions.

In a display of hyperefficient space management, an extraordinary number of my relatives would tuck themselves into my grandfather’s tan four-door Chevrolet. Within 10 minutes, we’d have been waved through the Arizona-Mexico crossing station and parked perpendicular to the deep curb at the Molino Rojo bar. My father’s eldest brother had only completed freshman engineering when he was commissioned 50 years ago to master-plan the streets in Nogales’ business district. But I always felt that his unintentional tribute to Dr. Caligari--sidewalks that are one inch high can unexpectedly angle up 10 inches--gave botana a sense of heightened drama. To make it to the pavement, waiters would have to lurch down, as if from an elevator that always stopped one foot above the floor. Not an easy maneuver when you’re balancing 10 pounds of brewskies over your head.

Before the food would arrive, a white-shirted carhop would attach a dented aluminum drive-in-style tray to the car window, which would somehow support heavy glass pitchers of beer. Then would come the platters of complimentary snacks--crunchy pork ribs or hunks of moist white Mexican cheese, or habas , which are roasted fava beans rolled in salt and chile.

There are varieties of botana that we were never served--Diana Kennedy writes of fried fish roe, fresh water snails, crackly chicharrones , and small cups of dried shrimp in a fiery gravy. But the specialty of the Molino Rojo were the tacos barbacoa. When it comes to barbacoa , I can’t see myself pulling off the paganistic-sounding instructions that Mexican cookbooks conjure up: entire cow or goat heads, stuffed with organ meats, are buried in shallow barbecuing pits lined with maguey leaves. The barbacoa that I recollect was more than likely a spicy variation on my mother’s brisket. Pans of meat, marinated in red chiles, oregano, garlic, carrots and orange juice, were tightly sealed and then baked in a low oven for, like, 200 years.

The signal to start salivating was when the barbacoa purveyor, a weary-looking man lugging a 10-gallon blue metal pot, was sighted coming up the street. He was bringing beef, shredded and sensationally succulent. And if the individual tacos were petite--the steaming corn tortillas were no bigger than the size of a mason jar lid--the presentation was theatrical. Thirty-five or 40 square cardboard plates of tacos were carefully stacked into the shape of a pyramid, a little bit of Teotihuacan that the whole family could share.

These days, botana is on the endangered species list. What with the bottomed-out peso , Mexican business people must have enough checkbook problems without announcing, “Lunch! On the house!” But on the day after Cinco de Mayo, I sat inside the Nogales’ Salon Regis bar and managed to approximate botana with two of my cousins. If the bill we received disqualified us from experiencing the real thing, nothing was priced more than $2, which, in my book, is free. My visit to The Regis was my first adventure in indoor botana dining. (To this day, a hand-painted sign in the front of the Molino Rojo prohibits entrance to any minors, or more intriguingly, persones armades , people with guns. And after recently checking inside, I’m convinced it was better to have never looked into its mysterious depths. Those belly-warming tidbits that I remember so fondly were prepared in a habitat perfect for growing fungus: a small room that was almost pitch-black and smelled of dampness.)

The Salon Regis, is a long, clean bar that proclaims its wholesomeness with ceiling fans adorned with frilly, frosted-glass light fixtures and a wide-screen Panasonic television set hanging off one wall. There is a lone item on the Regis menu, birria , a chile-based meat soup that is an even more delectable botana staple than barbacoa.

I heard about the Regis’ birria from my cousin, David, a tireless diner who has lofty standards yet is undaunted by pesky obstacles such as grubby-looking kitchens or dangerous neighborhoods. (David has also tried everything at least once “except dog and monkey,” he modestly pointed out. “But only because I’ve never been to a restaurant that makes it.”) As a Regis regular, David knew inside tips such as which waiter you flag down to get an icy beer. And that the Regis birria’s secret ingredient, the one that gives it its heady flavor is chachete , or globby cow cheeks. And he made sure that we got there early. Just like genuine botana , the birria at the Regis concession stand--really just two 15-gallon caldrons on twin burners--goes quickly.

David didn’t have to remind me that birria is not meant to be sipped with a spoon. You remove the soft pieces of beef, wrap it up in a warm tortilla, douse it with sweet Mexican lime and salsa, and eat it so that the brick-red broth is constantly being fortified by the rich spillage that rains back into the bowl. This consome de birria is considered a delicacy, which is why I should have been less surprised when David suddenly grabbed the last of my birria and swilled down the thin, peppery dregs. All great birria comes topped with finely sliced lettuce and white onions and a quarter-inch oil slick. So, time is of the essence when contemplating your tablemate’s leftovers. Wait too long and you’re rapping cutlery against a miniature skating rink of congealed fat.

Because botana always had its own specific atmosphere, it was nice to find that the Regis had just the right amount of lazy action. Customers wandered in carrying enamel pots, containers for birria to go. Parents crowded around small tables, eating with one, sometimes two, children squirming on their laps. And when a grizzled musician approached our table and began slowly sawing out a tune on his violin, we had to take his word for it that his bow was even hitting the strings. Who could hear him over the Mexican pop music? There was a pleasant hum, the sound of people squeezing maximum enjoyment from a ritual of minimal expense.

BIRRIA

(Maria Esther Zavala)

1 1/4 pounds flank steak

2 pounds beef brisket, trimmed of fat

3 bay leaves, crushed

1/4 teaspoon cumin seeds

1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns

Salt

2 tablespoons chopped garlic

4 to 8 guajillo chiles

Lime halves

Small corn tortillas, warmed

Shredded lettuce

Chopped white onions

Place flank steak and brisket in large heavy pot. Add enough water to cover meats. Place over medium heat and add bay leaves, cumin seeds, peppercorns, 1 tablespoon salt or to taste, garlic and half of chiles. Cover and simmer until meats are very tender, about 4 to 5 hours. Add additional water as needed. Add more chiles as desired to taste. Adjust salt to taste.

Strain broth, reserving meats and discarding chiles and spices. Shred meats. Return to broth and reheat to serving temperature. Spoon into shallow bowls and sprinkle with shredded lettuce and onions. Serve with lime halves and warm tortillas. Makes 8 to 10 servings.

Note: Substitute chicken broth for water to simmer meats, if desired.