The Enchilada Chronicles: Maga's

Tacos get all the love these days, but I've always been more of an enchilada person.

I've craved them since my first gooey, delirious bite of the cheese-and-onion enchiladas that the late, great Spanish Village made so well—right down to their deep red-chile sauce tasting of sun and earth.

That formative event happened in the late 1960s, and I've been chasing great enchiladas ever since. They're one of my ultimate comfort foods. The best ones have a harmony and cosseting softness that's a backdrop to lively counterpoints: raw-onion crunch; a tumble of escabeche vegetables; cool ribbons of crema. Not to mention the rainbow of sauces that pull the dish together, from complex moles to brisk verdes and beyond.

So I plan to document my pursuit of this Texas food icon here, in venues high and low and in-between. The project seems especially vital since too many of my Houston faves have disappeared in recent years, with the closures of Spanish Village, Saltillo and the brief, shining enchilada moment that was Hi-Way Cantina.

First in the series is the green chicken enchiladas at Maga's, a homey little corner cafe in the near East End, a convenient two miles from my doorstep.

Maga's is a recent discovery for me, thanks to two young journalists who live within walking distance in the Eastwood neighborhood, and met me there for a breakfast of huevos rancheros. I was charmed not just by my meal, and by the American-diner-meets-Tex-Mex menu, but by the sweet quirks of the recently refurbished decor. Of note: the calming moss-green paint job; the homespun pastry case; the Van Gogh Jr. painting of a cat regarding the moon.

The menu warns that the green enchiladas are "spicy," and they do have a nice little green-chile bite to them, as well as an invigorating lift of tartness. I was struck, too, by the quality of the filling: instead of the stringy mat of stewed bird too often encountered, Maga's was a mince of finely cubed chicken that tasted like it had been very recently grilled. Kinda startling, really.

There were two plump enchiladas on the $14.75 plate, a reminder that Houston's once-standard three-enchilada plates have fallen victim to this shrinkflationary era. Just enough white cheese glazed the surface, rather than smothering it. Ribbons of a thin white crema jigged and jagged, and a flurry of chopped cilantro rode on top.

I consumed these babies in a flash, enjoyed the refried black beans alongside, and left most of the marginally clumpy Spanish rice on the plate. (It wanted some red table salsa on top, but then, Spanish rice often does.)

So impressed was I, that I took home some cheese enchiladas with what was billed as "authentic red sauce." They turned out to be more like a starter enchilada pack, with just a thin wash of pale orange coating the corn tortillas , and tons of nicely goopy orange cheese. I chopped some raw onion, added some red salsa I had on hand, and found them a comforting dinner, though nothing I'd feel inclined to order again.

Well, unless I could customize them with Maga's galvanic red table salsa, which had that forceful green-chile leap that hits your tongue and then sears the back of your throat, and which reminds me of the one I grew to crave at the Spanish Village. (I'll never forget the great food photographer Penny de los Santos telling me that salsa reminded her of the ones she grew up with in the Rio Grande Valley.)

Maga's green enchiladas are going on my personal rotation, though. So is the carrot cake with a subtle whipped cream icing, one of an array of desserts that look like they were made by the talented neighbor lady down the street.

Which fits. Maga's is named not for the political movement, but for the chef-owner, who cooked at a variety of Houston restaurants before opening her own spot. She makes everything from pancakes to fried fish (I've been told it's a sleeper) to fettuccine Alfredo and a BLT on toast. Which is the only way I want my BLTs.

Hers is the kind of spot that makes a neighborhood go round. There was a varied Eastwood crew in attendance on Saturday evening after the rains stopped. The restaurant went from empty when I first sat down to hosting a guy in a Harley shirt, a couple on a date night, a prosperous family who arrived in a Mercedes AND a Suburban, no less, and a big birthday party in honor of a glam young woman who resembled Selena Gomez.

As the guests filtered in, there was much hugging and backslapping and exclaiming over a curly haired baby who got handed around. Eventually, they filled all the seats in a long table that ran down the length of Maga's dining room. I enjoyed that almost as much as the enchiladas.