Little Whims and Hankerings

In the central highland of Mexico is a colonial town of cobblestone streets and red-roofed houses called San Miguel de Allende. In the center of the town is an extraordinary neo-gothic church called the Parroquia that was designed in 1880 by an Indian mason named Zeferino Gutierrez who had seen postcards from Europe showing such wonders as Notre Dame and decided to build a similar cathedral.

Gutierrez had no formal training in architecture or engineering. They say he designed the Parroquia by drawing lines in the red clay soil with a stick and then showing the dirt drawings to Indian laborers.

Across from the elegant Parroquia, where in September the town celebrates its feast day by shooting fireworks from the spires of the church into a gathered crowd of men and boys who wear cardboard boxes over their heads for protection, is the zocalo, a square in the middle of town surrounded by the facades of old mansions painted pink and turquoise or saffron and ocher. In the middle of the zocalo is a formal garden with fat ficus and feathery casuarina trees where thousands of grackles gather at twilight to squawk and roost for the night.

At dusk, the sky over San Miguel de Allende becomes a layered torte of reds and pinks and purples made rich by the smoke that sits over the town from the many cooking fires.

It is an incredibly beautiful sight, made more so by the throngs of young people who, in freshly laundered clothes and still-damp hair, walk arm and arm around the Jardin--gossiping, flirting, laughing--as the daylight fades and shadows from the Parroquia grow long across the plaza and the old ladies in front of the arcade light their gas lanterns and pound out the fresh masa tortillas to make the antojitos--the “little whims” or “hankerings”--eaten out of hand by all the families and laborers and lovers who have come to the zocalo to pass the time and wait for the day to cool before heading off to dinner at 9 or 10 o’clock.

El Campeon restaurant, on a stretch of 19th Street in Costa Mesa that is chockablock with carnicerias and taquerias and panaderias, bills itself as serving “antojitos Mexicanos.” Were it in San Miguel de Allende or any other city in Guanajuato or Michoacan, where these little fancies first became popular, they’d be selling their sopes--crispy corn tortillas with pinched edges to hold fillings of the hash-like picadillo or the shredded, smoky pork stew known as tinga--and tortas from a street-corner stall or along a public arcade like that fronting the Plaza Allende.

But the health department gets nervous about street food, so if you want to sample true antojitos you’ll have to search out a place like El Campeon, which is hidden in a desultory strip mall between a dentist’s office and a liquor store, just about a block from the Costa Mesa DMV.

Cater-corner to El Campeon is the more famous Taco Mesa, which many believe serves the best truly authentic Mexican food in Orange County, if not Southern California. Taco Mesa draws people from all over Orange County, while El Campeon is strictly a west-side Costa Mesa eatery.

Frankly, El Campeon does nothing to encourage visits from those who live outside the neighborhood. There is no menu per se and no English translations--just a big board behind the counter listing a classical, if confusing, range of antojitos that may seem as similar as anything you could get at most Americanized Mexican restaurants.

There are the usual burritos and tacos, though the ones here are made with smoky chunks of carnitas or beef al pastor with its rich chipotle overtones, and flavorful masa tortillas, but there are better choices.

On a hot, sticky afternoon, a young family sitting at one of the turquoise-topped tables next to me was sharing a massive torta, made with the bobbin-shaped hard roll called a telera, stuffed with thin slices of roasted pork in a green chile sauce. Two little boys in sweaty soccer uniforms were standing up at the table picking at their father’s sweet corn tamale while taking cooling sips of rosy pink aguas frescas made from the blended pulp of overripe watermelon and served from one of four beehive-shaped jars on the counter lined with fresh oranges and melons and bananas.

Wherever you find antojitos in Mexico you will find the colorful jars of aguas frescas--made with blended fruits and sugar as well as tamarind pods and even hibiscus flowers--and El Campeon is no exception. Aguas frescas are to antojitos what beer is to chili.

The young boys were loath to sit down because it was so hot in the restaurant and because El Campeon is a repository of soccer memorabilia and they were busy admiring the restaurant’s trophies. There are soccer shirts from famous Mexican soccer players in glass frames on one wall and a collection of soccer trophies, some more than 4 feet tall, on another. The boys couldn’t resist touching one particularly monstrous trophy, and they weren’t the only ones since the gold plating on the soccer figure had worn off long ago. (El Campeon, by the way, means “the champion.”)

It was late in the day when I was there, and the restaurant’s half a dozen tables, usually full of day laborers and young families with rambunctious children, were mostly empty. I ordered the day’s special, a plate of flavorfully roasted carnitas with the ubiquitous rice and beans, and a basket of warm tortillas, as well as an aqua de tamarindo, and read the paper while slowly chewing on the tender carnitas, which was leaner and not as dried-out as you’ll find in many Mexican restaurants.

From time to time, the young woman behind the counter would slice up fresh melon or other fruit, mashing it in a blender and adding it to the icy beehive jars. A sharply dressed woman talking on a cell phone came in, waved to one of the cooks in the back and picked up a quart of barbecued pork al pastor and fresh tortillas.

After awhile, the boys in the soccer uniforms took their watermelon aguas and went outside to kick a soccer ball around on the sidewalk while their mother bounced a baby girl on her lap and their father read the paper. Nobody was in a hurry to go anywhere, including me.

A teenage couple came in, ordered a bowl of caldo de pollo--chicken soup--and an orange Fanta. They put two straws in the soda and held hands across the table. They were still there, letting the soup and the day cool a bit, when I left a little while later.

Open daily 7 a.m.-8:30 p.m.

David Lansing’s column is published on Fridays in Orange County Calendar. His e-mail address is occalendar@latimes.com.