Christmas is all about tradition. The older I get the more
important it is for me to have just the right things around me to ensure that
the big day is one of cheer not one of grumpiness. I must be doing something
right as this year’s celebration was mighty nice. Just the right amount of loot
for the boy, just the right amount of Christmas cheer to round out the edges of
a slightly snowy day. For some reason a good nap, a strong cup of coffee and a
lot of movies on the couch are now part of my new holiday tradition line up. No
midnight mass, not holiday ham, no histrionics, no drama, no whining. After
months of preparing for the spendiest night of the year by the time I hit
Christmas morning arrives I am done. Unwrapping presents is almost an
afterthought. So much has gone into the prep and the buying and the wrapping by
the time the youngsters are tearing through their tissue paper I am completely underwhelmed.
Happy but meh, done. Where’s breakfast, when can I sneak away and snooze for a while?
Hasn’t always been this way, natch. I know as a younger dad
that I not only had to be up all night wrapping presents but I also had to be
on hand to witness the joy AND knock out breakfast, lunch and dinner. And going
back in time the big day was easily more about what I got instead of what I
gave. It’s been great to get older and realize that the holiday is all about
the giving. Giving the right gift to someone is an art, something that gets
better, easier and more fun as the years go by.
But Christmas is just not about giving and getting but also sharing
the day at the groaning board with friends, relatives and family. My time in the
service sometimes had me miles apart from my peeps.
There have been times over
the years where I have found myself on the road, in a strange new city for a
new job or just in-between people on Christmas and found myself spending the day
on my own. It’s a different kind of experience when you find yourself on Christmas
day in a tiny apartment in a big new city. No incentive to fire up the stove,
make a turkey, pull together a batch of enchiladas. No, if I had my druthers in
comparison I would rather have that teaming horde in the house, a kitchen full
of people to cook for, a home teeming with people making racket, clamoring for
chow, beer, goodies and good cheer.
And hey, I am not complaining about my holiday this year.
Quiet, a smattering of snow, a simple stir-fry for supper, a lot of episodes of
3rd Rock from the Sun. There was talk of a pulling bigger meal but
sometimes easy is better. But tamales were in the line-up. Tamales are the go-to
dish in a Mexican household on Christmas day but this year we didn’t have the
zest, the verve or the masa on hand. I read a note from Uncle Max this morning
about the trouble he had with his masa this year, him and half the population of
the Southland apparently. Here in Greeley we can’t seem to swing a dead cat
without hitting a place to buy masa. But we got lazy and the green chili, red
beef and sweet tamales are just going to have to wait till after the new year.
Growing up we had tamales every holiday season. If I look
back I see can a vast panorama of my ancients pass before my eyes, all with the
intention of making their tamales and the requisite party to eat them the best
one yet. Every year my abuelas would come to the house and help build up the
season’s best and every year all sorts of folks would come over on Christmas
Eve to help demolish all the hard work that went into making the finest treats
that man or woman could ever hope to roll out for the holiday.
One year, though, tamales were just not going to be enough.
By the time we hit the mid-80’s everything I knew about life was upside down.
We were older, not so wise, just wise ass. We thought we knew everything there
was to know about life but we still ran home for the holidays. One Christmas my
cousin Mario got out of the service and came back to LA with an honorable
discharge in one hand and pretty young Texan wife in the other. He and the rest
of siblings were not content to just hang around with the elders at the family
home, no sir-ree. They had to find trouble and that was to be found way out in the
Simi Valley at the home of my cousin Christina. Back then we all had this penchant
for blow and many lines were definitely crossed that day. Cuban food lead to too
many beers, too many fatties and a mighty big jones for burgers. Burgers on
Christmas when tamales and Mexican food were supposed to be the order of the day?
Not for my recently returned to civilian life cousin. Only one kind of burger
would do that night and that was a Tommy’s burger. And not just any location
would do, no sir. His return to California burger experience had to be at the
grand temple itself, at the little burger shack on the corner of Beverly and
Rampart in Los Angeles.
Crazy at it was we loaded up into the family car, and,
loaded as we were, found ourselves out and about and deep into one of the worst
nights ever to be on the road in the Southland. It wasn’t a case of being a bad
night to drive, weather wise. It was just another cool and clear Southern
Californian winter night, perfect for stoned driving. No, it was far more
hazardous than that, as we found out as we rolled closer to our objective. Lady
luck must have been smiling down on us that night. We decided the last minute
to find an alternative route to our burger paradise as the traffic slowed down
to a crawl. As we crossed over the overpass a few streets down from the stand
we saw why the traffic went a near standstill that night: sobriety checkpoints
stretched across the freeway in both directions, CHP cars all ablaze in holiday
flashing light glory. We didn’t know it but we were moments from being swept up
in the holiday dragnet. We would have had less of a merry Christmas than a
bubba-groping good time in the LA County lock up had we not had sense enough to
jump off of the 101 Freeway when we did. In the end, yes, we got our Tommy burger
delights, but we were all just a bit more sober than we ever thought we’d be
that early LA morn.
I am sure that we got over our awe at our good fortune the
moment we got in line and saw the famed burger delights spread out before our
eyes. If you should ever find yourself out and about in LA, head over to that
humble burger shack on Beverly and Rampart and take in one of the finest
burgers in the land. And what makes them so worthwhile, you might ask? A burger
off the griddle is no big deal, you might say, but when it’s slathered with lip-smacking
chili, covered with melted America cheese, heaped with raw onions, beefsteak tomatoes and pickles and squirted
with fine yellow mustard, all squished between two lovely soft hamburger buns,
well, let’s just say you got hot heaven in your hands right there. Followed up
a with cold pop out of the cooler and a fist full of yellow peppers from the
brine you can’t get much closer to burger perfection than that.
And while most of my peeps might just want to say to me,
hey, Senior Mota Man, a nice platter of tamales in the safety of your home on
Christmas day is far more sane thing to eat than chasing down chili burgers in
Hollywood all blown out in the middle of Christmas night. I might have to say,
yeah, you ar e probably right. BUT! New traditions call for new treats. Here in Colorado we have
Smashburger and there isn’t a ladle full of chili in sight. Yummy, yes. But
Tommy’s? Not even close. We gotta do something about that!
Yes, here in NoCo we are definitely down for tradition. The tamales are coming and thanks to
the net Tommy’s chili can even be made at home as well. Any more these days it's just not about having a white
Christmas. Bring in the color! Give me a burger, or a tamale for that matter, all slathered in red
and keep the cold brews coming. New traditions call for new treats, indeed!
Salud!
Yay, The Original Tommy's!
Have a Tommy's jones but too far from the Southland This recipe will do the trick!
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