Latest news with #Pujol
Boston Globe
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Boston Globe
Meet the Retrologist, a man on a mission to document America's fading roadside attractions
Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up By day, Pujol is a journalist at WABC-TV in New York, but by night, weekends, and pretty much any other spare moment, he devotes his time to documenting midcentury roadside kitsch. Most of Pujol's tales begin with road trips seeking out a drive-in theater or a pair of 12-foot hot dog statues, and then quickly build into adventures as he explores the country, collecting images and stories about a dying slice of Americana known as the roadside attraction. Advertisement He's perhaps the only person who can convincingly begin a story with: 'I was driving to see an old Ben Franklin store around Millbury, Vt., and then I saw a 20-foot concrete gorilla named Queen Connie, so I had to pull over.' Advertisement Retrologist is a term he's coined to describe his obsession. It's also the name of his Sometimes the attractions are saved (such as the Shell sign from 1933, located in Cambridge), but more often than not, communities don't see their value. Pujol included the now-defunct Twin Donuts in his book, but frets over the fate of its iconic and eye-catching sign. 'I was heartbroken to see that go,' he said of the 70-year-old donut shop, and then immediately asked, 'Do you know if the sign is still there?' Twin Donuts in Allston closed after 70 years. The diner's last day was March 23, 2025. Brett Phelps for The Boston Globe From the 1940s to the 1970s, roadside attractions were an essential part of the landscape in the United States. Eye-catching neon signs, glistening chrome diners, and 40-foot metal fishermen were intended to entice motorists to pull over, shop, or eat. When you see an ice cream shop shaped like a cone or a massive geodesic dome painted blue to resemble a blueberry, chances are, curiosity will get the better of you, and you'll stop in for a look. At least that was the logic back when family vacations involved getting in a car without iPads and cellphones. Pujol, 52, said he first became enamored with these gems of Americana during family road trips in the 1970s. He would look out the car window at the bright orange roofs of Howard Johnsons or gaze with amazement at Muffler Men, the term used to describe 20-foot-tall, fiberglass statues used for advertising in the 1960s. Advertisement The Modern Diner in Pawtucket, RI. Its owners placed it on the market earlier this month. Rolando Puloj/Handout 'From a very early age, I was transfixed by roadside attractions,' Pujol said. 'The first road trip we took as a family, I was 4, and we drove from New York to Miami. 'There are so many interesting stops along that route. But the one that, of course, comes to mind is good old South of the Border in South Carolina. That made an impression on me even as a 4-year-old. For those who have never witnessed its splendor, Go ahead and call it tacky. Pujol finds no shame in the word. "Queen Connie," a 20-foot concrete sculpture of a gorilla, hoists a Volkswagen over her head at Pioneer Auto Sales in Leicester, Vt. Christopher Muther/Globe Staff While South of the Border is still in business, many famed roadside relics haven't survived into the 21st century. Quirky old motor lodges and cheese wheel-shaped stores are continually razed to make way for more characterless square box stores. Neon signs that beckoned motorists for decades are tossed into the landfill or wind up in private collections. 'It is heartbreaking. And you see that happen all the time,' he said. 'Sometimes these old stores get almost manipulated by sign shops into updating their look. They're told they need a new sign, and then they'll replace their beautiful vintage sign with a banal plastic sign or bland awning.' Advertisement For his book, Pujol traversed the entire country in his quest to find some of the best attractions and sights, and New England did not disappoint. He fell in love with kitsch icons such as the giant orange dinosaur in Saugus that was saved from near-death after the miniature golf course where it resided went out of business. The famous "Leaning Tower of Pizza" in Saugus is one of Rolando Pujol's favorite retro roadside attractions. Pujol refers to himself as the Retrologist. Christopher Muther/Globe Staff In addition to Twin Donuts, he also included Donut Dip in West Springfield, the Golden Rod in York Beach, Maine, the Weirs Beach sign in Laconia, N.H., the Teddie Peanut Butter Factory in Everett, Dairy Witch Ice Cream in Salem, and Modern Diner in Pawtucket, R.I. Like many of his favorite places, the fate of the Modern Diner is also unknown. Its owners have decided to sell, and it's now on the market. 'What makes these things so appealing is that they invite you and encourage you, almost force you to get out of your phone and stop doom scrolling and get out there and see things and, God forbid, talk to people,' he said. 'I love that. And you can't have those experiences locked up at home. That's why it's sad to see another one on the endangered list.' While places continue to close or remodel, Pujol is encouraged that he's seeing a growing community of people who seem to care about the fate of these places. He's hopeful that an increase in retro appreciation will mean a brighter future for some of his beloved destinations. The sign for Howard's Leather Shop in Spofford, NH, harkens back to the days when mom-and-pop stores used over-the-top signs to attract motorists passing by. This is featured in the book "The Great American Retro Road Trip." Rolando Pujol/Handout 'I don't want to overstate the point and call it a trend, but there are some indications that a revival of interest in this stuff is beginning to manifest,' he said, choosing his words carefully as if speaking too optimistically might jinx the future of these attractions. 'At some point, I'd like to think that people will get tired of everything being bland and beige. These attractions are not only historic but they're a window into our collective history, how we used to live, and what brought us joy.' Advertisement Christopher Muther can be reached at
Epoch Times
04-07-2025
- General
- Epoch Times
This Budget-Friendly ‘Taco Tuesday' Meal Would Be Great Any Day
PITTSBURGH—It's the rare grownup, teenager, or child who doesn't love a good taco (or three) every now and again, if not on each and every Tuesday as the social media trend dictates. In Pittsburgh, it's easy to scratch the itch for this classic Mexican hand food, as we have our pick of so many great places to fill up on meat- or vegetable-filled tortillas in and around city. They're available everywhere from food trucks and small storefronts to full-service restaurants and even a gas station-turned-Mexican grocery in Coraopolis (La Poblanita). Our mouths water at the thought of tacos because they taste great, of course, and are extremely versatile; they're a good choice for vegetarians, vegans and carnivores alike. You can tuck almost anything—meat, veggies, fruit, beans, cheese, and even the occasional leftover—into a corn or flour tortilla. They're also a kitchen darling because tacos are ridiculously easy to make at home, even if you don't normally like to cook. And tacos make good financial sense in these challenging economic times, because they usually feature less-expensive cuts of meat like ground beef, and also can be built with rice, corn and beans. A package of 30 corn tortillas at my local grocery store cost just $2.15—about 21 cents per three-taco serving. That's why I was excited when a copy of 'Sunny Days, Taco Nights' by Enrique Olvera (Phaidon Press, $40) landed in my mailbox. The acclaimed Mexican chef has been experimenting with tacos for well over a decade at his Mexico City restaurant, Pujol, growing more inventive as he developed a deeper understanding of and appreciation for the staple he and his staff worked with every day. The cookbook includes 100 succulent recipes for home cooks—both classics like barbacoa, Baja-style fish, and al Pastor tacos and 'originals' like ones featuring fried Brussels sprouts, rabbit, octopus, and bundled green beans and peanuts. In the book's foreword, co-author Alonso Ruvalcaba writes that a taco 'is the opposite of exclusive: It is genuinely for the masses—not just in words or a damn sign, but for real. For everyone.' To keep costs down for this latest installment in our budget-minded dinner series, I opted for a taco that was a little different but still in the 'classic' category because it includes ingredients you could find in most grocery stores and a super-simple preparation: cochinada tacos. Cochinado means 'filth' in Spanish, which sounds pretty unappetizing. In this case, it refers to the crispy bits and pieces of meat that collect at the bottom of a chorizo grill after many hours of cooking sausage. In Olvera's book, they're made with a combination of finely chopped beef cecina (a cured, air-dried beef similar to prosciutto) and 'green' chorizo made with spinach, pork, peanuts, nuts and raisins, among other things. I went a more traditional route, swapping regular ground beef and chorizo, though I kept the traditional garnishes of onion, lime juice and cilantro. The original recipe is probably tastier, but my version was pretty delish, too—crunchy, slightly spicy, and definitely craveable. The best part: The entire dish took less than 20 minutes, during which I prepared the guacamole served as an appetizer and also the spicy salsa de arbol to be spooned on top for some extra zing. The breakdown on cost: $2.42 for the guacamole, $2.16 for the salsa, $7.37 for six tacos, and $3.01 for a pan of nine brownies gently spiced with cinnamon and cayenne pepper. That adds up to just $14.96 for two, with leftovers, or about $7.50 per person for a three-course, really tasty meal. The biggest expense after the meat (which wasn't that costly since you use a total of 1 pound) was the avocado. In fact, I almost chucked it from the menu when the first store I stopped at was charging $2 apiece, which would have blown my $15 budget. Then I saw them for almost half the price at another store—whew! The classic Mexican appetizer was back on, with one change: To make the guac guilt-free, I served it with crisp-cut carrot sticks—a budget vegetable I always have in my refrigerator crisper—instead of tortilla or corn chips. For dessert, I gave in to my love of chocolate with a really fudgy brownie that used very little flour and only one stick of butter. As always in this series, I went into it with a plan, made careful choices, and took advantage of ingredients I already had on hand (and you probably do, too). I didn't have to factor into the cost garlic, vanilla, cumin, cinnamon, and cayenne. As prices continue to climb—can you believe a single Granny Smith apple or yellow onion now can cost a buck or more?—I imagine it will become harder than ever to create menus that are interesting, taste great and are easy on your wallet. But at least egg prices are finally coming down! Cochinada Tacos PG tested Makes 6 generous tacos. 2 tablespoons olive oil 8 ounces ground beef 8 ounces ground chorizo 6 corn tortillas 1/2 white onion, chopped Chopped cilantro 1/4 teaspoon salt Lime wedges Salsa, for serving (recipe follows) Heat oil in medium skillet over medium heat. Add beef and chorizo, and saute for 10 minutes or until they just begin to turn golden brown. Transfer 3/4 of the mixture to a plate, and cook the remainder of the mixture until it is dark brown, about 5 minutes. (This is the cochinada.) Heat a skillet over high heat for 5 minutes. Add tortillas, flipping them continuously for 2-3 minutes or until warmed through. Transfer to a plate. Top each tortilla with browned meat and a spoonful of cochinada. Serve with onion, cilantro, lime wedges, and salsa. Recipe adapted from 'Sunny Days, Taco Nights'
Yahoo
18-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Contributor: When it comes to mole, it's personal and political
For me, mole has always been personal. It's a bridge to my family, my memories and to Mexico itself. But lately, it's become political too. In these past months, as Trump's administration has run roughshod over any pretense of humanity in the way America treats immigrants, I've been thinking about how culture itself can be criminalized, policed, restricted and erased. So when I heard that Pujol, Enrique Olvera's Michelin-starred Mexico City restaurant, was bringing a pop-up, and his famous mole, to Los Angeles, I knew I had to go. I wasn't hungry just for mole but for my people, our culture, to be seen, even celebrated. Ten kitchen and wait staff traveled to Olvera's L.A. restaurant Damian for the event. That detail hit me hard because of the risks in crossing borders at a time when every Latino entering the U.S., no matter how or why or with what legal status, is suspect. Even inside the U.S. the border follows you. The message is clear: Perceived outsiders are untrustworthy by default. Read more: Contributor: My grandmother opened a restaurant in Echo Park in 1951. The rest is history Still the Pujol chefs and servers came, and brought with them Olvera's mole madre — a constantly aged, evolving mole that has been developing (almost like a sourdough starter) for a full 10 years. Some call it iconic. But as Olvera says, 'We're not trying to make the best mole — just our own.' That's the heart of it. Mole is memory, place, family, self. At the pop-up, I expected to be served one mole, the mole, the mole madre. Instead, we were served three. The first was a mole de olla — meaning, cooked in a clay pot. (I'm used to the term 'de la olla' referring to beans — frijoles de la olla, soupy and whole, not mashed or refried.) I was surprised to find that this mole wasn't traditional, that is, it wasn't a sauce poured over meat. Instead, it coated a tender short rib, more like a basting than a pour. And the flavor went deep: dark, smoky, with a chocolatey-coffee undertone — not sweet, but rich and complex. If I hadn't known it was mole, I might've mistaken it for a sophisticated barbecue glaze. The short rib itself was fatty, fork-tender and indulgent. Read more: Making tamales brings my family together. But can we keep the tradition going? The next mole arrived like a tribute to artist Josef Albers' 'Homage to the Square' — except this was a composition of nested circles on a round, white ceramic plate. At the center was an adobe-red mole nuevo, alive with brightness and vibrancy. The mole madre encircled it, just as its name suggested, like a mother cradling her child, a culinary pietà. Hand-written in pen, the menu noted the mole madre had now been aged for 3,676 days. The color was a deep, dark brown — like the bark of an ancient oak tree after a rainstorm, earthy and noble. The colors reflected not only the dish's depth but also the palette of Los Angeles, its temporary home. And it was served sans protein. Suddenly, the richness of the short rib in the previous course made sense — it had fulfilled the need for heartiness, allowing this dish to stand on its own. I scooped a tortilla outward toward the plate's edge — from the younger mole to the madre mole. The first bite was lively, spiced and bright — already better than almost any mole I'd ever had. Then the mole madre : thicker, more like pudding than sauce, reminiscent of the dense Spanish hot chocolate served with churros. It had the presence and gravitas of the San Gabriel Mountains — rising sharply from sea level to 10,000 feet. Just like those mountains catch the light — pink, orange, purple — this mole revealed layers of spice and complexity. It didn't just have depth; it had archaeological, geological depth. And yet, I had to laugh. It was a good thing I hadn't brought my mom or my tias to the pop-up. As transcendent as the dish was, they would've said: ¿Y la carne? When we asked how the mole evolves, our waiter explained that the ingredients change with the seasons. Before coming to Los Angeles, the chefs had added guava, apples and pears. Excited, I asked, 'What will you add while you're in L.A.?' The waiter smiled. 'We don't have plans to add anything.' But I wanted them to. I wanted Los Angeles to give the mole something in return — a gesture of reciprocity. When my family visits from Mexico, they bring raw cheeses, dried shrimp, artesenal pan dulces, beaded art made by the Huichol. We reciprocate with See's candies boxes, Dodger gear, knock-off designer purses from Los Callejones. Couldn't the chefs take something back? A flavor? A symbol? Something to mark that they weren't just visitors, but familia returning to ancestral soil here in Los Angeles, a city that was once itself part of Mexico? I thought of the loquats in season, sweet and floral, growing in backyards across L.A., so delicate they cannot be sold in markets. They'd make the perfect local accent. I thought of the sour cherry juice from a Georgian dumpling house in Glendale, its tartness would add a contrast to the mole's depth. I thought of David Mas Masumoto, the Japanese American farmer in the Central Valley whose family was imprisoned during World War II but whose peaches still flourish. Then I remembered the orange blossoms, blooming at the Huntington in San Marino. I'm writing a book about the Huntington gardens, and I know those trees once bore fruit picked and packed by Mexican laborers, 100 years ago. The Pujol mole, I realized, could hold a memory, just as those trees do. L.A. oranges and mole madre — they'd form a kind of culinary Latinidad, a genealogical and territorial fusion through food. I turned to the waiter and said, 'Please, take our oranges back with you. They're a link — across miles, generations. They belong with your mole.' He promised to pass the message on to the chefs. I had come to taste a legendary dish, to be sure. But in the savoring, I was struck by how precarious everything feels in this moment. I found myself yearning to convey how deeply what's Mexican and what's American are still connected, people to people, gente to gente, no matter what the government in Washington says. Every mole carries a story, even if it doesn't earn Michelin stars. The story tastes of a living, evolving history. And I want that story to shine. Natalia Molina is a professor of American studies and ethnicity at USC. Her latest book is "A Place at the Nayarit: How a Mexican Restaurant Nourished a Community." If it's in the news right now, the L.A. Times' Opinion section covers it. Sign up for our weekly opinion newsletter. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
Los Angeles Times
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
When it comes to mole, it's personal and political
For me, mole has always been personal. It's a bridge to my family, my memories and to Mexico itself. But lately, it's become political too. In these past months, as Trump's administration has run roughshod over any pretense of humanity in the way America treats immigrants, I've been thinking about how culture itself can be criminalized, policed, restricted and erased. So when I heard that Pujol, Enrique Olvera's Michelin-starred Mexico City restaurant, was bringing a pop-up, and his famous mole, to Los Angeles, I knew I had to go. I wasn't hungry just for mole but for my people, our culture, to be seen, even celebrated. Ten kitchen and wait staff traveled to Olvera's L.A. restaurant Damian for the event. That detail hit me hard because of the risks in crossing borders at a time when every Latino entering the U.S., no matter how or why or with what legal status, is suspect. Even inside the U.S. the border follows you. The message is clear: Perceived outsiders are untrustworthy by default. Still the Pujol chefs and servers came, and brought with them Olvera's mole madre — a constantly aged, evolving mole that has been developing (almost like a sourdough starter) for a full 10 years. Some call it iconic. But as Olvera says, 'We're not trying to make the best mole — just our own.' That's the heart of it. Mole is memory, place, family, self. At the pop-up, I expected to be served one mole, the mole, the mole madre. Instead, we were served three. The first was a mole de olla — meaning, cooked in a clay pot. (I'm used to the term 'de la olla' referring to beans — frijoles de la olla, soupy and whole, not mashed or refried.) I was surprised to find that this mole wasn't traditional, that is, it wasn't a sauce poured over meat. Instead, it coated a tender short rib, more like a basting than a pour. And the flavor went deep: dark, smoky, with a chocolatey-coffee undertone — not sweet, but rich and complex. If I hadn't known it was mole, I might've mistaken it for a sophisticated barbecue glaze. The short rib itself was fatty, fork-tender and indulgent. The next mole arrived like a tribute to artist Josef Albers' 'Homage to the Square' — except this was a composition of nested circles on a round, white ceramic plate. At the center was an adobe-red mole nuevo, alive with brightness and vibrancy. The mole madre encircled it, just as its name suggested, like a mother cradling her child, a culinary pietà. Hand-written in pen, the menu noted the mole madre had now been aged for 3,676 days. The color was a deep, dark brown — like the bark of an ancient oak tree after a rainstorm, earthy and noble. The colors reflected not only the dish's depth but also the palette of Los Angeles, its temporary home. And it was served sans protein. Suddenly, the richness of the short rib in the previous course made sense — it had fulfilled the need for heartiness, allowing this dish to stand on its own. I scooped a tortilla outward toward the plate's edge — from the younger mole to the madre mole. The first bite was lively, spiced and bright — already better than almost any mole I'd ever had. Then the mole madre : thicker, more like pudding than sauce, reminiscent of the dense Spanish hot chocolate served with churros. It had the presence and gravitas of the San Gabriel Mountains — rising sharply from sea level to 10,000 feet. Just like those mountains catch the light — pink, orange, purple — this mole revealed layers of spice and complexity. It didn't just have depth; it had archaeological, geological depth. And yet, I had to laugh. It was a good thing I hadn't brought my mom or my tias to the pop-up. As transcendent as the dish was, they would've said: ¿Y la carne? When we asked how the mole evolves, our waiter explained that the ingredients change with the seasons. Before coming to Los Angeles, the chefs had added guava, apples and pears. Excited, I asked, 'What will you add while you're in L.A.?' The waiter smiled. 'We don't have plans to add anything.' But I wanted them to. I wanted Los Angeles to give the mole something in return — a gesture of reciprocity. When my family visits from Mexico, they bring raw cheeses, dried shrimp, artesenal pan dulces, beaded art made by the Huichol. We reciprocate with See's candies boxes, Dodger gear, knock-off designer purses from Los Callejones. Couldn't the chefs take something back? A flavor? A symbol? Something to mark that they weren't just visitors, but familia returning to ancestral soil here in Los Angeles, a city that was once itself part of Mexico? I thought of the loquats in season, sweet and floral, growing in backyards across L.A., so delicate they cannot be sold in markets. They'd make the perfect local accent. I thought of the sour cherry juice from a Georgian dumpling house in Glendale, its tartness would add a contrast to the mole's depth. I thought of David Mas Masumoto, the Japanese American farmer in the Central Valley whose family was imprisoned during World War II but whose peaches still flourish. Then I remembered the orange blossoms, blooming at the Huntington in San Marino. I'm writing a book about the Huntington gardens, and I know those trees once bore fruit picked and packed by Mexican laborers, 100 years ago. The Pujol mole, I realized, could hold a memory, just as those trees do. L.A. oranges and mole madre — they'd form a kind of culinary Latinidad, a genealogical and territorial fusion through food. I turned to the waiter and said, 'Please, take our oranges back with you. They're a link — across miles, generations. They belong with your mole.' He promised to pass the message on to the chefs. I had come to taste a legendary dish, to be sure. But in the savoring, I was struck by how precarious everything feels in this moment. I found myself yearning to convey how deeply what's Mexican and what's American are still connected, people to people, gente to gente, no matter what the government in Washington says. Every mole carries a story, even if it doesn't earn Michelin stars. The story tastes of a living, evolving history. And I want that story to shine. Natalia Molina is a professor of American studies and ethnicity at USC. Her latest book is 'A Place at the Nayarit: How a Mexican Restaurant Nourished a Community.'
9 News
23-04-2025
- General
- 9 News
Today in History - April 24: Germany believed they had a widespread spy network all over the UK. It was just this guy
2 of 8 Attribution: The National Archives But the Germans did not realise Pujol was concocting complete fictions to undermine the Nazis. The Spaniard had offered himself as a double-agent to the British at the start of 1941, but was rejected. Still wanting to help, he signed up to help the Germans and was given espionage training.
