It was a winter evening in 1987 on the slopes of the Popocatépetl mountains when I first saw it. I'd been walking for a long time and the chill was getting into my bones. In that moment, all I could think of was my hometown, Merida, and that warm plate of bean stew that was hundreds of miles away.
All photos by the author.
There, in Aztlán's territory, I laid my eyes on you for the first time. You were wearing your green emerald corn tortilla suit filled with cheese as white as the mountain snow and steaming chorizo that made my frozen Yucatecan heart melt. Then I got to taste you, and that's when I first fell in love with you. Now I live in Taipei and you don't even exist here, my darling quesadilla.
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I miss you so much it hurts.
I love you, not just because of your attributes, but because of your complexity. And without your consent, people all over the world are ruining your reputation in ways that you don't even realize. It's appalling how some think they can make you using a supermarket tortilla, Kraft cheese, and a microwave. But that's how noble you are. You allow people to call—without any shame—the thing they made in under 30 seconds "a quesadilla." It's an atrocity to me, but you are so generous that you allow them to do this.
It should be your face on the 20 peso bill, not Benito Juarez Garcia. You manage to find your way into even in the most bougie of Mexico City's neighborhoods, from Roma to Condesa. The entire city's social spectrum depends on you: businessmen, hipsters, construction workers, kids, old people, vegans, and carnivores alike. That's how truly democratic you are.
I miss your delicious corn tortillas and all your different fillings: chicharrón, chorizo with potatoes, picadillo, mushrooms, pumpkin, or whatever else you choose to fill yourself with.
You've been created for everyone to sample, and that's why you have so much depth to your personality: Your northern versions are filled with Chihuahua cheese or Monterrey Jack; your southern ones packed with melted cheese threads like a Pollock painting. But as much as I adore you, I have a confession to make: In Taipei, I did something sacrilegious. On one particularly melancholy day, I went to Macho Tacos, an abysmal restaurant, and ordered a Taiwanese quesadilla.
It was made with an "El Paso" brand tortilla and cheese that wished it was Manchego. There were shitty beans, avocado, and a bit of rice in there, too. It was awful.
Thank you, dear quesadilla, for letting people misinterpret you in every last corner of the world. Now I'm back in Mexico and I get to enjoy you every day until I leave again. I already miss you.