26th
Dude, Where’s my Churro?
After spending one week in El Defe, I became thoroughly spoiled by the readily accessible churro—it was so plentiful in Mexico City that I never worried about finding the hot crisp snack, filled to the top with chocolate, strawberry, or condensed milk. When I returned to Chicago, I was heartbroken to find that as large as Chicago’s hispanic population is, I could not find a personal churro maker to lug around frier and feed me whenever I wished. The closest thing I’ve found in Chicago has been the panaderias on Chicago avenue and the dessert at Adobo Grill. So it was to my deepest surprised that in the middle of Newark, I screeched to a halt when I saw the “Hot Churros: $2” sign outside of a brazilian buffet restaurant on Ferry St. The cashier, in his adorable portugese accent, wanted to make sure I knew what a churro was before I plunked down my grubby dollars. As it long as its cinnamon, sugar, fried dough, I said and he handed me my two joyously greasy sticks of dough.
Victory!
