Mesa, AZ - Santa Fe, NM

502 MILES

The Witching Hour, Mesa, AZ. All's quiet in the Valley of the Sun. Three sleepy beasts pile into the SUV. Limbs mashed and brains mangled, they creep their way towards Destination One.

A mocha, McBitter, and Why Bother later, the beasts are up and at 'em, groovin' their way down the Beeline Highway (despite Mandy's misguided protests). We shoot through the eastern border fueled by first Soul Train and then Outlaw Country; it is quickly agreed upon that all we really want to do is Talk Dirty in Hawaiian.

On the dot of twelve, we arrive at the ominously named Pie Town, NM, possible clandestine hideout of the Bizarro Unabomber.


In Pie Town, one has two options: to the right lies the direct approach, the humble Daily Pie Cafe, and to the left, the risky yet beguiling Pie-O-Neer. Yelp insists that you not fall for Pie-O-Wiles, so we veer right towards the enticing aroma of baked goodness.

[EDIT: it appears that Yelp says nothing of the sort, and rather that it was Mother's wiles that we fell for.]


I consider questioning the establishment as to which side their their pies tend to tilt, but then decide against such uncalled-for wiseassery.


It's Pie.


No Lie.


The cafe holds perhaps six tables, four of which are full. We shimmy over to three awaiting seats at the low counter, bellies all a-rumble. The waitress, a salty older woman with expressive features, appears somewhat displeased at the arrival of new customers. "It's insanity!" she exclaims with an exasperated huff, pitching sets of napkins and silverware all akimbo across the bar.

"Hi, the menu's on the board--" she throws a worker's arm in a vague direction with tense flair, "--I'll be back as soon as I possibly can---" and turns to attend to one of the crying multitudes awaiting her assistance.

"Hold on," Mom queries innocently, "is the burger a green chile burger?"

Oh dear.

Irritated at being requested to pause a beat from her established rhythm, she snips, "We have whatever it says on the board--" and takes swift flight. Gotcha.


We decide upon burgers all around, desiring to give the famous New Mexican green chile addition a go. Salty Waitress returns with pad and pen.

Mom: "Well, we're gonna split a 1/4 lb burger, with cheese and chiles--"

SW: "HOLD ON, that's two orders so I have to write twice, yes, mm-hmm, uh-huh and what did you want on that?"

Mom: "Cheese and chiles, yes to lettuce and tomato but no mayo--"

SW: "HOLD ON, ... cheese... chilies... and what else now?"

Mom: "Uhh, lettuce and tomato but no mayo."

SW: "Lettuce........ tomato........ and mayo?"

Mom: "No. No mayo."

SW: "Okay okay okay. And you?"

John: "Uhh, same thing but no chiles."

SW: [huff puff huff] "Let's see, err, umm," [scribbling furiously] "Ahh," [making marks as though possessed by a writing demon] "O-KAY!" [whirls away akin to a dervish]


And you know? They are durn good burgers; we basically inhale them. The green chile didn't honestly make so much of a difference. I am desirous of more heat in particular; we discuss the possibility of marketing a discreet food enhancement device with multiple storage compartments for the foodie on the go. Perhaps it would have the appearance of a cell phone with some kind of dial on it to switch around to five or six small quantities of sauces/seasonings concealed within. The trouble would be managing such additions on the sly; I doubt too many chefs would take kindly to application of secret scrumptious Sriracha to their tasteless sandwiches.


De repente, it is High Time for Pie Time.


The obvious selection is "New Mexican Apple," which turns out to have green chile and pine nuts distributed throughout, lending an excellent intrigue to an otherwise somewhat overwrought standard. We also elect for a slice of cherry since John and I have recently discovered an intense love for the bouncy berry. It is similarly excellent, and the crusts on both pies are an often-desired-yet-rarely-encountered blast of buttery bliss.

Throughout our decadent lunch, a steady stream of further new arrivals trickle their way through the front door. SW is, as the kids say, freaking out. The Daily Pie Cafe is burgeoning with business, and it is far beyond anything SW ever expected to have to deal with when she began work at a pie-based establishment in Pie Town, NM. During the span of our lunch, she huffs up what amounts to at the very least a significant squall. We're talking potential difficulties at sea here, even for experienced mariners.

Once we finally go through the rigmarole of obtaining the check, we offer her five bucks as a hefty tip (she may or may not be quite as huffariffic as this fictionalized account insists). Instantly she grins and thrusts a "WHERE THE %!@% IS PIE TOWN, NM?" into our sweaty paws. Cool!

Several hundred miles and an intermittent doze later, we arrive at our hotel in Santa Fe. The desk guy asks if we need restaurant recommendations, and I immediately respond with a yes - we do have plans to hit up Bobcat Bite for blow-your-socks-off burgers, but I'm just not feeling two in one day. Desk Guy recommends Maria's Kitchen, which specializes in New Mexican cuisine and a massive variety of margaritas. YES.


Charlatanry in the fitness room. John may not ever be able to run for President.

We dump our stuff in the room, Mom and I change into hipper digs, and we saunter out towards the central plaza.


Santa Fe has a distinct vibe to it, but "cool" isn't a particularly obvious quality. It's touristy for sure, but in the most laid-back way I've seen in the States.


Lots of new-agey crap (oxygen bars! psychic readings!), turquoise and silver jewelry, old folks in overalls playing twangy music on street corners, young folks with funkified hairstyles just milling about.


The central plaza is surrounded on all sides by fairly upscale shopping - loads of jewelry plus artsy pieces that the city is so famous for. I muse that I would love to dedicate a year of my life towards some massive as-yet-unspecified creative project, and I'd certainly be in good company in this city.


John expresses a wish to visit the ol' ore house.

Instead, we scoot a boot to Maria's.


The place is PACKED with a bubbling mixture of locals and tourists who've been tipped off. The wait for three is supposedly an hour, but the medley of New Mexican smells is nearly as intoxicating as the margaritas we enjoy during the wait. They sneakily pack a massive punch, and we get the giggles and talk cannibalism.

Seems like we only wait 30 minutes or so, then get ushered to a table next to Luigi/his sour-looking date and thin-lipped silent father/furiously texting daughter. We are well beyond peckish and elect for a plate apiece, despite having noted their obvious enormousity.

We share a green chile and bean stew starter, which our hungry tongues lap up with wild abandon. It is piquant and hearty and just slightly tangy; the beans add marvelous textural interest and the chunks of pork are completely inundated with the superb salty broth.


The feed troughs arrive, accompanied by hot n' greasy sopaipillas, a new carb-y delight for John and me. It turns out to be best enjoyed blanketed in honey.

Equally fabulous are our entreés. Mom goes for the blue tortilla special, I choose carne adovada, and John opts for the Yelp-lauded rib tips. All are extraordinary dishes; I especially love the spicy tomato marinade on my pile of pork. The refried beans and rice action is happening as well.

Bloated and blissful, we waddle back to the hotel and conk out, me to an incredibly fitful night of sleep plagued by my body's continual protests at the rich food. This one time may have been worth it, but I'm going to aim for perhaps a shade less spice tomorrow...