Green Chile

Green chile love sauce 

Even if it's not in your blood, you'll want this local delicacy in your mouth

by J. Adrian Stanley

·         Brienne Boortz

·         Salsa Latina

I have loved green chile since a warm summer night when I was 12 years old. We hadn't even unpacked the moving truck yet, and the long drive from Oregon to our new home in Denver was still weighing on my family's bones. Friends drove us to a hole-in-the-wall a few blocks from their house. The place was badly painted, and none of the tables and chairs matched. I ordered a smothered burrito. I can remember that first mouthful. The way the Anaheim chiles set my virgin tastebuds ablaze, the warm oil of the stewed pork, the thickness of it on my tongue. I scraped the plate clean, my eyes watering. The next morning, I had what I still remember as a terrifying experience in the bathroom. Turns out, green chile is spicy both at the entrance and the exit. But I guess everyone remembers their first time. Ten years later, as enamored as ever with "chile verde," I would embark on what my friend Greg and I dubbed "The Great Green Chile Tour" — a weeklong roadtrip through the Southwest in which we consumed the sauce with every meal.

It's tradition

If you're new to the area, you may not have fully digested the regional obsession with green chile. In a way, green chile is something that unites the cultures of the Southwest, as much a part of us as our wild lands, or legends of cowboys.

You find green chile everywhere in Colorado. It's on the menu at greasy spoons, and under the steel lid at the local buffet. But it is served best at mom-and-pop joints where the folks at the counter remember your name.

Places like tiny Salsa Latina (28 E. Rio Grande St., 328-1513), a strip-mall haven run by Danny Aguilar, his wife Carolina and 19-year-old son Isaiah.

Salsa Latina only has a few tables — you're lucky if you can claim one — and at lunch, the line usually runs out the door. Some of the regulars, like Melody Gardner, grew up eating green chile and can't remember life without it. Others, like Stuart Blom, are converts.

"I'm from the Midwest, so when someone says 'chile' to me, I think red chili with beans," he says. "It took a long time for me; I'm a white boy."

But he caught on. He can't stay away from the restaurant these days.

So what is it that's so addictive?

"It's a Spanish tradition," Carolina says, shrugging. "It's in our blood."

1.       How old was he when he moved to Denver?

2.       What is the topic?

3.       In what part of America is green chile popular?

4.       What is the name of the restaurant discussed in the article?

5.       What is the point of this article?