Enchilada Chronicles: La Guadalupana #2

I bet you didn't even know that there was a second edition of La Guadalupana, the spunky little Montrose bakery-cafe that has long punched above its weight.

I didn't discover the new location until I ventured to the nearby Coastal Bake Shop in search of some east-side oven magic. A few blocks south of Coastal on Burke Road, a main artery in that part of Pasadena, I spotted a La Guadalupana sign on a fresh-looking young retail strip.

Of course I hit the brakes. From the parking lot, I could see a hand lettered whiteboard menu at the front door. It told me this really WAS an offshoot of the Montrose original, from the Vampiro juice to the enchiladas verdes I had so admired there once upon a time.

I had to return. Partly because I was so curious about whether La Guadalupana would translate out here in the burbs; partly because at some point, years ago, I fell out of love with the original.

I don't remember exactly how my disenchantment happened. I do recall thinking that the dishes I ordered had slipped. And so I slipped away. As a restaurant critic, you're often plagued with the thought that maybe things have improved at a spot you've dropped from your rotation. But new places keep opening. The shark keeps swimming.

Now I had the chance to rewrite that old script. Which found me at a corner table in La Guadalupana's airy little dining room on a late morning this week, a gobletful of vividly striped Vampiro juice before me.

It was like meeting an old friend with a flamboyant sense of style: descending layers of deepest garnet, marigold orange and sun yellow, with little square ice cubes bobbing in a rose-pink froth on top. In went my straw, met by the familiar citrus tang of orange juice, the sweeter fullness of carrot juice in the middle, and finally the dark earthiness of beet juice at the surface—the vampire-approved "blood" that made the drink suitable for the season.

Damn, I had missed it, without even knowing I did. The price was now $7.50, which hiked the Vampiro from a nice little indulgence to a splurge. I didn't care.

Much, anyway. I cared even less when I realized how well the Vampiro suited the plate of green enchiladas that landed on my table. I had half-forgotten how fresh and verdant they are here: their scattering of crunchy lettuce ribbons and slivered onion piled with avocado slices and a flurry of crumbly queso fresco.

Guadalupana's are Mexican-style rather than Tex-Mex style enchiladas. They're not baked under a mantle of melted cheese, but rolled up in a very lively tomatillo sauce and then garnished. The corn tortillas—three per order, not the disappointing two that prevail in these trying times—wrap around carefully cooked chicken that's more pulled than shredded, and tossed in a gentle ranchero sauce.

So good, especially because the green sauce hits with a chile heat that lights up your tongue first, and then spreads over the roof of your mouth, and then lingers. These enchiladas look innocent. They are not.

And who knew how well beet juice would suit this particular dish? That was a revelation.

I took my early lunch in the company of a two tablesful of coffee-klatsching neighborhood ladies (La Guadalupana is famous for its cinnamon-scented coffee blend), followed by assorted fellows in workshirts and ball caps as noon approached. The pale yellow room with its sapphire upholstery never felt rushed or crowded. But it looked like the bakery-cafe had struck a chord with Pasadena's Latino population as a steady stream of customers came and went.

The outdoor umbrella tables where I had hoped to dine, on a day that finally felt a little bit like fall, had vanished. I wondered if they were reserved for weekends. I hoped not.

When I finished my enchiladas, it was all I could do not to lick the plate. Evidence provided below.

I departed with a sack containing some Pan de Muertos, a pretty slice of tres leches that proved to be a little too sweet for my tastes, and an order of chicken mole enchiladas for later. Those were a little too sweet for me, too—but I fixed them up with some extra sour cream for a tart contrast, whereupon I was able to appreciate the deep, sultry spicing. Not just cinnamon, but allspice and clove and...maybe even some ginger, I speculated. This mole had personality.

So does this little family business, started in the aughts by Trancito Diaz, who had worked as a baker at the River Oaks Country Club, then the French Riviera bakery. The success of his Montrose bakery-cafe allowed him to save enough to build his own small retail center out in Pasadena, he told Francisco Montes of the Houston Press back in 2013. Now, 12 years later, here it is, complete with the La Guadalupana #2 he'd been planning.

On my way out, I noted the framed review of La Guadalupana I had written for the Houston Chronicle back in 2007 —it's always weird to see your ancient prose—and paid my respects at the photo-lined Day of the Dead altar the Diaz family and staff had set up. I was glad I had come, and that I live within striking distance, and that autumn was in the air.