Every Christmas vacation from my early teens to my late twenties, my family would pack up all of our summer clothes, battle the crowds at JFK and head to Acapulco for ten days of guaranteed good weather and more fun than you can imagine. The first ten years we were regulars at the Hyatt Regency until we switched over to the Pierre Marques. My sister and I learned basic Spanish quickly—pool, more bread and butter please, the check, and most of the curse words. (Our parents were so proud.)
Even though we were on the Modified American Plan, which included breakfast and dinner, the food at the hotel got boring after a couple of days. So we would venture into town for dinner and always pass The Beef Wheel. My sister could barely look at the thing. It was a hunk of gray colored beef (pork? lamb?) circling round and round on a spinner while the sun charbroiled it. A short, smiley, white-hatted chef with gold teeth leaned a long, sharp blade to the edge to shear off a serving of the mystery meat to the lined-up locals. (The Beef Wheel was never a dinner option for us.)
Shakey’s Pizza was—they sold matzo-like saucy cheese bread that tasted vaguely Italian. It was still a taste of home. Nights out were either Su Casa—the long climb up the stairs with the stunning view, El Embarcadero—the jungle-like place where the war canoe doubled as the salad bar and all four of us loved the Rangoon Chicken, Miramar—overlooking the stunning Acapulco Bay that my Father rated the food a 3 but the view got a 10, or Good Times for the Chihuahua cheese quesadillas.
Now you might have heard that Mexico has gorgeous beaches, ripe fruits and wonderful cultural activities. All true. You might also be aware that some of the food descriptions never translate fully into English, so some items just seemed odd to us. Like the little Mercado gift shop at the Hyatt sold Sabritas potato chips in dangerously spicy flavors, which was funny because the packaging showed a happy face.
And the chocolate ice cream at Su Casa was sort of purply grey in color but tasted great. Menu items were often misspelled or described in the most hilarious ways. We imagined that the “over-burned corn puree” could not have been a big hit, but the “lamb of rack” was probably a huge seller. The funniest item appeared on a fancy printed menu for New Year’s Eve. It was a lengthy coursed dinner with several different soups, a huge salad bar, multiple entrées, at least ten veggies, and several starches. For dessert there was just one choice: First Puckler.
We spent New Year’s partying at Carlos ‘N Charlie’s with the Machols, Oblonskys, Rubins, Blooms, Rubins (yes, two families!), Schwartzs, Kalts, Cohens, and some of the Cantors (not to mention Fast Eddie, The Valet Parker, Bikini Lisa, Peter From The Princess, Dave With The Long Eyelashes, Isaac, Alain, Xavier, Andrew and The Mexico City Contingency, Edmundo & Rafael, The Brother, Kenny B, Stef, and That Guy Who Visited Rebecca’s), so we didn’t stay at the hotel that night to unfurl the mystery. To this very day we have no idea what a First Puckler is—no idea what it would look like or taste like, what ingredients are used to make it, or if it’s served hot or frozen, if you can eat it with your fingers or if it’s best a la mode. (I’m sure my Mother would vote a la mode.) So it’s become an inside joke for the past thirty plus years. Who’s having dessert? I made First Puckler.
jenslittleblackbook.com 