[dropcap size=big]T[/dropcap]he first crunchy bite of the salsa smothered totopo—the proper word to call a tortilla chip—hits like the first notes of El Son de La Negra, slowly waking your taste buds to the brisk and sensational flavor of its sazón. It’s an addictive flavor that’s aided and abetted by the still-very-crunchy texture of each totopo. As if the near-perfect flavor and texture of the totopos wasn’t enough, the bite only gets better as you dive into the pool of silky black beans next to the totopos.
The fried tortilla chips are simmered with either a green tomatillo-based sauce or a vibrant red one without losing the chip’s crispy edge. If you asked for divorced chilaquiles, you would enjoy both side-by-side on the same plate with black beans, a plush freshly-baked bolillo, and fried plantains.
Once you’re done, sponge up the remaining sauce on the plate with their crusty, fluffy fresh-baked bolillo and finish it off with that sweet fried plantain to soothe your buds. For home-like comfort food, these chilaquiles are as exciting as it gets.
But how do plantains end up on a plate of spicy chilaquiles from Guadalajara? The black beans with queso fresco are a little less suspicious, considering black beans, although not familiar to Jalisco, tend to be more common in Mexico’s southern parts. But it begs the question, how did the westside’s most loved chilaquiles with plátanos fritos happen at a small bakery on Venice Boulevard named Venice Bakery & Restaurant?
Not much is known about when Venice Bakery was first opened. Other than it belonged to a Cubano named Jesus Reyes, who also owned El Camaguey, a carnicería on the same block. In 2002, before announcing he was selling the bakery, Reyes approached his most trusted and dedicated employee, Norma Mejía, and offered it to her. “He always had a lot of appreciation for her,” says Edith Aceves about her mother. “She always looked out for his business, so he wanted to show his appreciation and asked her if she wanted it.”