Dear Chilaquiles,

So I know I should’ve stopped after the third beer, ok? And yes, how many times do I have to wake up feeling like a big ball o’ hell to learn that while that initial buzz from the beer-mezcal combo is exhilarating, the end result basically kills my Sunday? I am thinking back to that third, fourth, fifth Bohemia Oscura and each one is like a little blow to my brain.

But hey. This is why I love you so, chilaquiles. This is why I fantasize about you, and why I trek in a pounding hungover stupor with Jorge and the dog to hunch over the counter in pain, sip fresh-squeezed orange juice, and wait for you to arrive sizzling, popping and crackling up at me as if to say, “Demon gotya again, didn’t it?” But I know you love me.

The way those eggs mesh with the bright, sour, seediness of your tomatillo green sauce and and your steady, hearty fried tortillas, the way the thinly sliced onions meet the soft white quesillo and the floral bite of epazote, bringing a small tear to the edge of my eye – really, what else is love, my sweet chilaquiles?

I bow over you, deeply enraptured. I sip the juice, a healthy afterthought to all your sizzling gooey depth, and I devour you bite for bite, crunchy tortilla smothered in sauce dribbled with egg and spiked with white onion and strong creamy cheese and sunny green herb, and then I collapse in rhapsody and sleep all day.