Calexico Cart
The cart is almost mirage-like in nature. Hidden around the corner of Wooster, off Prince Street, it is only open from 11:30 am to 3:30 pm, no later and no earlier. Working in midtown, serious planning and impeccable timing are necessary to procure one of their golden-grilled rolled quesadillas. It has been done before – a close call to say the least – but this day is an early day and since I am going to be in the area in that magical span of time, not going would almost constitute a crime.
I have a doctor’s appointment to attend to first when I leave work around 1 pm and a hair appointment to make around 3:30. The subway saunters down to Soho and I am already regretting my decision to wait until after the doctor’s appointment to venture down to the burrito oasis, but it is too late to turn back now. I am already in the dressing gown, reading the end of Angela’s Ashes, which is all about starving in Ireland. Perhaps not the best reading material to have on hand at the moment.
The doctor is quick, almost too quick, her keyboard going at 110 wpm as she fires off questions about my last this and my last that and have I noticed anything unusual about this and have I developed any allergies to that and breathe deeply for me relax put your feet up here lie down results in two weeks looks good see you next year. Gown off, clothes on, I say goodbye to the receptionist and ravenously make my way towards Prince.
Pause. Cash only. Do I have cash? I can find cash. Unpause. I am traipsing down Prince Street, taking the biggest strides my five-foot-three frame will allow. Wooster, I see Wooster! It is almost 2:45 and I have to get to the other end of Soho in 45 minutes. I turn the corner and am met by a surprisingly short order and pay line.
I have been here a few times before and have perfected my order. Their quesadillas here are filled with meat and cheese and then rolled, which means they are burrito-like in nature. Back in California, I frequented a restaurant that called them quesaritos, except -
“Hi, can I get a rolled carne asada quesadilla with beans, rice, salsa, oh! and guacamole?” And the quesarito is reborn in New York City.
The order-taker pauses mid-guacamole. “Wait, have you been here before?”
I nod, “Yes.”
“Okay, just wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting yourself into,” as he finishes writing guacamole, takes my name, and informs me to give them 15 minutes for my order to be ready.
Cash. I head in the direction of anywhere and start walking, hoping a small market or bodega will have a flashing ATM HERE sign. A few blocks away, I spot an ATM outside a restaurant and relief washes over me. I walk up to the ATM.
It is out of order.
I do a full 360, slight panic setting in. I don’t think these guys take IOU’s. I see a market across the street and rejoice silently. The ATM sign is proudly displayed in their window and I can see the console set into the wall outside their store. I hurry over, wallet in hand, ready to pull out my debit card as soon as I reach the -
No way.
I imagine the quesarito sitting on a shelf in the cart, cheese dripping from where it has been cut it in half, carne asada juices marinating the rice and beans, guacamole resting on top of the entire operation; I imagine the cheese hardening and the guacamole browning, the crispiness of the tortilla crust going stale, as the silver to-go tray gets thrown into the garbage can at the end of the day, the order-taker shaking his head over the burrito corpse, reaffirming his belief that she didn’t know what she was getting herself into.
Real panic sets in. I feel like I am in a video game and every door I try to open is met with by a genie with his arms crossed and his head shaking no. I run into the store and my hope for a second ATM diminishes as there are only two aisles in the tiny space and I can look down both of them at the same time. Long shot – “Do you know any other ATM’s in the area?” The clerk just shakes her head and shrugs.
Back onto the street, I just start walking, looking for a small miracle, out of alternatives, hoping they will at least give the lonely quesarito to a homeless person on the street, when I look off into the distance and see what I think is – or is it a mirage? – a stand-alone ATM, covered in stickers and graffiti. I gravitate towards the gray box and it does not disappear as I make my way in front of the screen.
It works!
I pull out 60 for good measure and rush back to the cart. I check my cell phone. It has only been about 12 minutes and I see my order is up next, my name scribbled in sharpie at the bottom of the order ticket. I watch him carefully put the aluminum tray in a plastic bag, throw in their signature chipotle crack sauce – an apt description – and call my name.
“Here!” My hand shoots up as if he is taking roll in homeroom. I hand him my well-earned 20 and receive the quesarito in exchange. I am already flying to my next appointment, the change he handed me stuffed into a front pocket of something. My hair salon has a cafe in the back of the establishment and I will eat it there.
I check in about 20 minutes early at the salon and I am handed a black robe to change into so my shirt does not get hair all over it. Today, the robe will prevent crack sauce from staining the shirt as well.
The quesarito is in front of me, steam still wafting from the tray, an even brown crust surrounding the encasing. I pick up the first half and take my first bite. The sound of crisp makes someone’s head turn. Their carne asada is melt-in-your-mouth, the spices down to a science, and the cheese is woven through each bite. The rice, beans, salsa, and guacamole balance the heaviness of the carne asada and cheese and absorb the salty-sweet juices of the meat. The first half is gone by the time I am called to get my hair washed and I am already envisioning taking that first bite all over again.
Quesarito – shimmy in a robe, especially with the chipotle crack sauce
Calexico Cart
On the Corner of Wooster and Prince
New York, NY
(917) 674-1869
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