Once upon a time, a hapless adventurer found himself summoned by a witchdoctor to travel through a time-space portal in a mysterious city north of Roumelia, east of Pannonia, and once filled with magical Cumans, mythical Patzinaks, and maurading Avars.

An ancient city at varying times part of the Gepid kingdom, the Bastarnae lands, Dacian expansion, Roman conquest, Hun subjugation, Bulgar khanate, Magyar state, Ottoman incursion, and Austrian empire.

It was in this oft-misunderstood principality of Transylvania that our hero found himself dumped onto the meanstreets of oraşul Oriunde, after a grueling hitchhike involving wrong turns, multiple languages, car accidents, and gracious-if-pokey hosts.

Under the strain of full backpackery and weary from an epic battle with the great palinka warrior Uram Ördögi, the protagonist was armed with a bit of torn paper upon which was written cryptic notation regarding the unmentionable location of and single phone number for a healer of the mind.

This bumbling wanderer managed to negotiate safe passage aboard a Romanian taxi cab and arrive at a pizzeria whereupon the sorceress sprung forth from the nothingness she had been hiding behind.

Under her breath she uttered incantations to charm him up flights of stairs to the inner confines of her ivory tower. Beset on all sides by literature most foul, the traveler was in mid-shoe removal when he caught his first glimpse of a little tündér.

As soon as he unloaded his gear, the first order of business was announced: a forced march throughout the town! Down long streets, up tall hills, around entire neighborhoods, through areas, between sections, above dissent, and below the watchful eyes of tyranny.

For being lethargic en route, he was directly threatened with futuristic toiletry products available exclusively in the violent region that birthed Vlad Tepeş.

During the re-education process, the comrade had difficulty absorbing both the details of the new history being fed to him as well as understanding the greater significance of the yarn swirling in the stark void between a pinna and an auricle. Yet the mistress remained unrelenting. And so she whipped him onward, travelling to and fro. Then, to again…

Because the man had originally arrived far later than the enchantress desired, she had needed to feed her troops long before his appearance. Our drifter had not yet eaten which gave him an excuse to temporarily escape her gaze in order to secure rations from the local pizzeria.

Once nourished, the nomad attempted to engage in a variety of general chit-chat, but became quite dizzy from the spinning hands of the clock while intoxicated by soft cushions of an increasingly irresistible couch.

zzZzZz.

Not much for conversation, eh? Sheesh.

According to the rumors of the dawn patrol, it seems like nearly nothing could wake me the next morning. People going about their daily routine, televisions blaring, kids poking me with plastic toys, and other assorted activities which might have awoken Davy Jones.

Then, with a snap of her fingers, I suddenly opened both eyes and nearly clucked like a chicken. Had I been hypnotized? In a coma? Quantum focus?

Fortunately, I was not being held against my will at the insane asylum, but merely being a rude guest in the home of a trained psychologist who eyed me suspiciously with one twitchy brow and a number of unspoken questions. Heck, I wasn’t even alone in the morning. What a scandal!

Let’s all agree that Shrinkmamma was very gracious, indeed. It was time to rise from the dead and rejoin the living.

Desperately needing to get back into the good graces of Shrinkmamma, it wasn’t long before I reconfirmed my previous committment to prepare an ethnic buffet for her enjoyment. Of course, I was secretly sure this would buy me some level of forgiveness because she is, afterall, completely used to being bribed with food.

You see, during a Campionatul Mondial stupor, I — apparently — made a vague reference to mexican food in a meaningless email response to one of her several spams. Being the highly manipulative creature she is, Shrinkette increasingly referred to the aforementioned casual remark until the vitrol reached a cresendo when she shrieked at the top of her lungs, demanding I prepare some for her entire tribe.

Wait. I may have mischaracterized that. Heh.

Okay, so what really happened is that I’d been baiting lil Shrinkalina with my prowess in the kitchen. And you know what I mean. Spoons and skillets, salivation and satiation. Bragging about how I’m capable of cooking a few things (which she no doubt analyzed as signal of insecurity).

I’m not precisely sure when it was I had my first taco. I do know it was in California and at an early age. I’m fairly sure it was probably local fastfood and delicious. On the other hand, I’m pretty darn confident I can tell you exactly which local restaurant introduced me to the glory of how amazing a simple burrito could be.

Fact is I’ve spent the overwhelming majority of my life in states along the Mexican border. I used to dance merengue. I know how to make proper margaritas. I once owned a sombrero. Y puedo hablar español contigo tambien. All these otiose factoids are offered up to you as collective evidence that I know how to cook mexican food. Darn tootin’.

To bring us back on point, you might say our favorite psychologist was looking forward to a little latin flavor. And rightfully so. Arriba!

Our first task was to requisition the necessary supplies. Five souls squeezed into a cute, little ball of Bastille rouge expertly navigated through potentially dangerous Romanian traffic by the omniscient Wrobey. I believe it was during this gutwrenching display of Forumla 1 machismo that I learned the tale of how our driver had nearly escaped across enemy lines armed with nothing more than a knife before some psihologa coaxed him into sclavie.

By the grace of whatever erisian mysterees lurk out this inhabited dimension of our cubic reality, we managed to survive our arduous journey to the local meat store. Therein, I witness a great variety of pork products as only a true Romanian instinctively believes is the end-all, be-all of culinary experiences.

Yes, my friends! Witness the glory, revel in the audacity of countless chunks of obscure animal parts suspended in gelatinous bone extract only to be wrapped in yet more flesh. Imagine the multitudes of flavor just waiting to assault your palatte in an unrelenting blitzkrieg of barbaric proportions.

Lest I work up your appetite even more, I should note that we were on a mission to buy chicken since I am not a pork-eating individual (and thereby an outcast in Romanian society). Fear not, loyal reader! Despite the prevalence of avian flu in the region, most Romanian meat companies have not fully swallowed the propaganda about negligence with respect to public health.

Nossir, I found that many poultry farms who sell products in Transylvania are untied in solidarity to continue long held practices of inadequately packaged pui brazenly laid bare to the elements for those buyers endowed with extraordinarily strong immune systems.

After escaping the biohazard, Wrobey wrecklessly careened the vehicle toward a nearby hypermarket so that we might acquire the other ingredients required for making lunner. We haggled over cheeses, vegetables, and other ingredients only to end up faced with the difficult task of selecting beers from a surprising collection of rarities.

Then, home again home again. People were getting anxious and it was time for me to finally deliver on the various promises I had made. Fortunately, I had the manicured and able hands of Lolita to aid me in preparing the feast. I must admit she’s rather skilled at creating tortillas, which is the hardest part of the whole affair.

Wrobey had the next most difficult job as Timi’s entertainer. Shrinkmamma was directed to flex her muscles on the 1840s meat grinder. I had the easiest task, I suppose, of directing the veritable circus while cooking pui picant and hashing out a fresh, beautiful salsa.

Finally, it was time to serve up some some tacos. Purists from Mexico would categorize it as a hybrid of a burrito and a taco, but all Americans (and there are many more of us, which therefore makes us right) would immediately recognize our meal as being soft tacos.

Take a homemade flour tortilla and sprinkle shredded branza cedar on it. If you’ve got pinto beans cooked up, then put some of those next. Scoop yourself a hearty helping of very spicy ground chicken meat. Top with some lettuce (or, in lettuce-scarce Romania, shredded cabbage), optional sliced olives (in Romania, be sure to manually remove pits), and your choice of salsa.

Longtime friends and family will note there are, essentially, four levels of salsa. The first is generally served to children and persons over 90 years old, but is now re-named “Romanian” style due to the domestic inability to eat anything hotter than an ice cube. The second level is your typical mild American salsa, which is offensive to most Mexicans and too hot for the majority of Romanians. Then you’ve got “Texas hot” salsa as a mutually acceptable heater for both sides of the Rio Bravo del Norte.

And, finally, there’s always the Romerican style. Biter beware.

The hungry masses were left with little choice but to bravely dive into the dangerously spiced food (granted, we went with American salsa but the chicken did have a zing to it). I must have been speaking in Cirquish because the poor locals had a most difficult time in understanding exactly how to wrap up one’s soft taco or burrito.

They tried not to crucify me for my inability to explain it right. I tried not to snicker at their inability to follow what I thought were the relatively easy visual demonstrations I performed repeatedly. We may differ on that point to this day, but it all worked out. Even little Timi was able to enjoy eating the meal.

In accord with French wisdom, Shrinkmamma would ensure just deserts via a forced march through the town. Again? Again! Although burdened with an extra kilo or two of comida mexicana, this time I felt mentally up to the challenge of working off a few calories by joining in her city tour reprise.

Clearly this was a good thing. Afterall, the previous night I had been too exhausted to fully drink in the vast and sundry offerings of Oriunde. Hence, we set out to retread the earlier footsteps and witness the sights and sites. I was actually capable of absorbing much of the fascinating information she knows about Oriunde, the second time around.

Much to her chagrin, what immediately impressed me the most was a revolution in Romanian civility borne through my personal sighting of the very progressive municipal government’s rather daring attempt at someting resembling public service by creating the first availability of modern porta potties for the full-bladdered general public.

Lolita stole some sanctified fruit from a holy garden, which Shrinkmamma declared a gift from God himself. I observed the crime while standing nonplused under the watchful eyes atop a wooden church tower.

No good deed goes unpunished. For my lack of reporting the theft, I was followed by some puppies belonging to the reclusive clergy.

As the two ladies sped ahead of me in a haste to exit the scene of transgression, I lumbered behind them trying to fend off the mother dog who nipped at my shorts. The situation grew a little most hostile as I attempted to shoo off the beast while it gathered up the chutzpah to finally go on and try biting me. To the horror of my female companions, the canine… well… let us say it lost the physical confrontation.

Sometime later, I tried to atone for my sins by photographing a wedding couple.

Meanwhile, Shrinkmamma was not quite finished with her hijinx as she later encouraged me to raid a highly secret military facility where it was rumored the CIA had conducted renditions for prisoners in the war on terror.

At some distant point, the harassment finally ceased. We made it full-circle back to her place of residence. Lolita blacked out on the couch. Shrinkmamma and I stole a computer from under Wrobey’s nose, so we could explore a vast collection of Serbian music while gossiping about the assortment of nuts who work in psychology clinics. Later, we collapsed into a menagerie of wine and beer. Discussions flowed thickly as we sifted through the probable message of Christ, whether or not I am clinically insane, and other heady topics.

She’s a brilliant woman, y’all. It’s true that she’s married, but her friend has hair worth dying for.

Bah. Make of it what you will. All I know is I got some sleep eventually. I was given the most delicious raspberry jam I’ve ever had in my entire life, which was personally made by this gal. And Wrobey was even kind enough to drive Lolita and I to the edge of town and abandon us to the wayward obscurities of hitchhiking.

But I did steal a cake recipe.

And the bonus was I ended up back home with both Alutus and Haţegana!!!

(Legal Disclaimer: Our lawyers would like to clarify that descriptions of any driving were strictly for entertainment purposes, do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Romerican publishers, may not be entirely accurate, could be wildly embellished, and are certainly likely to have been exaggerated. Scienticians have independently concluded that persons depicted in the preceding actually drive quite like Mr. Rogers. While supplies last, limited time only, first come first served, no rainchecks, your mileage may vary.)

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