Ode to Baleadas

Ay, baleadas. The Honduran national street food. Pick a city and, breakfast to latenight, whenever the craving strikes, you'll find busy assembly-line stands lining the streets. Meet the cast. The all important tortillera, stretching dough wide and thin, tossing it on the comal. She attends the comal, tossing readied tortillas into baskets nearer the women working the frying pans, who, in between stirring the beans, eggs, and meats, snags orders from the hungry masses hovering around. Then you pay the guy who hangs out, inhales the wonderful scents, and collects money. I want that job.

Fat, hand tossed flour tortillas, smeared with an oil-rich refried bean paste, then loaded with your choice of colorful decorations. Scrambled eggs. Crumbled cheese. Avocado spooned from its flesh. Curls of red onions or chimol. Juicy strips of tender beef freshly speared from the oil bath if you're feeling carnivorous. Maybe an extra tortilla, browned with bulging air pockets, hot off the comal. All for no more than L$25 fully decked out. Now my five day binge of nothing but baleadas and the occasional bagged mango doesn't sound so mad, huh?

Not only that, but my favorite baleada outpost in La Ceiba offered this greasy, to my knowledge nameless variation. The flour tortilla was tossed, then dumped into boiling oily depths to brown and balloon, until it looked like the crust of a Personal Deep Dish Pizza. Then it was treated like a baleada, save the folding, loaded with toppings. Like a big, brown and garnished edible sponge of cooking oil. Wonderful.

Currently I'm on a Tajadas con Carne Molida binge. Mountains of fried plantain chips, covered in a sauce of potato bits, sauce, and ground beef. 'Nuff said, no?