Sorry, folks: I answer what people ask. And while I have in the queue preguntas about sausage, chocolate, Aliso Viejo restaurants (or, rather, the lack of) and other more pressing issues, I couldn't help but like the query sent by Ramón:
So, what's your favorite food-themed song?
Hmm. I'm not sure why, but the first song that popped into my mind was “Savoy Truffle,” one of the songs George Harrison contributed to the Beatles' White Album. And then I remembered that the reference in “Penny Lane” to “finger pie” wasn't a foodstuff, but rather a Liverpudlian slang term for, um, some sexual thing or other.
“Hot Tamales” by legendary bluesman Robert Johnson is a classic, of course. And who doesn't love Louis Jordan's “Saturday Night Fish Fry,” which is also the name of a compilation of great New Orleans R&B? But my all-time-favorite food-themed song is after the jump.
“Sopa de Caracol” by Banda Blanca!
I love this song for multiple reasons, none of which involve the video's chicas (see below). It was a smash in the early 1990s, making its way to Mexican dance floors, where our too-proper dancing mores forbade us from executing the proper moves that go with it that is in full force in the video. It's also one of the few times punta has penetrated the United States; it's the traditional music of the Garifuna of Honduras, an Afro-Indian community with a large settlement in Southern California, including more than a few in Orange County (interesting trivia–if you see a “black” person in SanTana, it's more than likely they're either Garifuna or from the Mexican states of Guerrero and Veracruz). And best of all? It's about Honduras' most famous meal: sopa de caracol, or conch soup. Oh, how I miss La Glorieta, the only Honduran restaurant that ever opened up shop in la naranja; it sold a stellar version of the soup, all about thinly sliced sea snail in a coconut broth. It closed years ago, replaced by a horrible Mexican restaurant that was subsequently replaced by the great birria joint El Cabrito.
But one can always remember . . .