Carne Adovada

Munson and I could hear Palmer yelling but couldn’t see him even though he was sitting no more than ten feet in front of us.  We had walked off the plane, through the corridor and out into gate area where our eyes met up with the intense mile-high Albuquerque sunlight.  We could hear Palmer bellowing and calling us “retards” for everyone to hear, while we stood there motionless trying to adjust to the new surroundings.  Embarrassing public displays were commonplace with Palmer and this was no exception.  Once we regained our equilibrium we stepped forward to where Palmer was seated and he handed each of us a Waterford crystal goblet which he then filled with blush zinfandel from a jar he had brought with him.  This was a small out-of-the-way airport in the 1980s and it was evidently acceptable for someone to make their way to a boarding area carrying a clear glass jar full of a liquid that looked very similar to gasoline.

Thus began probably the last weekend that Munson and I spent with Palmer after he retreated back home to New Mexico following a rocky career practicing gastroenterology in a handful of other states.  From the airport we rode in one of Palmer’s Cadillac convertibles to his place.  Palmer sent Munson and I inside and then headed off to get some take-out for lunch.  He was back an hour later and needed help bringing the food into the house.  He’d gone to a nearby mom-and-pop drive-thru that he’d heard put out huge portions.  The combination of Palmer’s Spanish and a weathered speaker had resulted in him returning with twelve, instead of two, large-sized carne adovada specials.

We set one of the plastic containers on the kitchen counter and packed the fridge with the rest.  I removed the lid from the container and saw what appeared to be a very thick red blob.  Palmer assured us that this was the proper New Mexico style for the dish.  What we were looking at was easily a full quart of chili sauce under which was buried chunks of barbecued pork. 

Photo from nmgastronome.com

We were all hungry but none of us including Palmer could eat more than a half-dozen bites.  The stuff was definitely tasty but it was way too spicy for us.  The lid went back onto the container and it joined the others in the fridge as we left for the state fair at Palmer’s insistence.

Munson needed little prodding since the New Mexico State Fair featured horse racing at Albuquerque downs.  We each purchased a Daily Racing Form and found seats in the glass-enclosed, air-conditioned grandstands.  Races run at all fairgrounds are usually pointless to handicap.  The races bring together mostly very cheap horses from outlying areas with most of them never having competed on the same surface let alone against each other.  Consequently there is no basis of comparison for all the data spread over the pages of the Daily Racing Form.  Combine this with the fact that the fair’s races are run on what’s referred to as a “bull ring” track with more turns than straightaways, requiring three complete laps to cover a mile, and you have a total crap shoot. 

If that isn’t enough to discourage you from wagering your hard-earned money, there is the added possibility that things are not completely on the level.  The fairs are run once a year for only a few weeks, typically in rural locations, and are notorious for their slipshod oversight of security, drug testing and the like.  When a news report tells of a group of jockeys rigging the finish of a race so they can divvy up a massive trifecta payoff, you can be sure it happened at a fair and not a major track like Santa Anita.

When the third consecutive improbable long shot came in, Palmer flew into a rage.  He screamed out, “What the hell good is this piece of shit?” referring to the racing form whose pages he began methodically ripping up and tossed into the air.  “What a fucking waste of money.  Why don’t they just sell astrology charts for these pigs?  It’s a boat race.  All these races are fixed and anybody betting on them is a fool unless they’re in on it!”

From nmhorsebreeders.com

Volatile behavior is nothing unusual at the races and few people even bothered to look up from their racing forms.  Palmer stomped off leaving the grandstands to spend the next couple of hours checking out the 4-H livestock competitors including steers, heifers, goats and hogs.  When Munson and I finally gave up on the horses we wandered the fairgrounds for 45 minutes until we located Palmer munching on a corn dog and watching actual pigs race.

Photo from newmexico.org

Palmer drove us to a chili cook off somewhere in downtown Albuquerque which was the next scheduled stop he had planned for the weekend.  Munson and I discovered that Chili is serious business in New Mexico as the contest easily outdrew the state fair that day.  Wall-to-wall people crowded around an endless string of booths with each claiming to offer the hottest, spiciest chili available on the planet.  Munson’s and my lips and gums were still throbbing from the carne adovada so we were perfectly happy to pass on the chili and simply take up people watching.

Photo from bizjournals.com

Palmer on the other hand dove right in and seemed to relish the punishment handed out at each booth.  Either the combination of sampling a dozen different chilis or actually having encountered the most vicious chili on earth put Palmer in a bad way.  We helped him to the car where he lay prone in the back seat for almost an hour before he was able to drive us back to his place.  Along the way we picked up beer and ice to go in a cooler since the fridge was completely taken up by the containers of carne adovada.  Palmer claimed that his eating anything over the next few days was out of the question but Munson and I were so hungry we pulled some of the take-out from the fridge to give it another go.  Surprisingly we each finished off a full container.  We may have become acclimated to the heat but it was more likely that the seven hours sitting in the fridge had mellowed out the carne adovada. 

As much as Munson and I enjoyed the carne adovada that night it was even better the following morning topped with eggs cooked sunny-side up.  After breakfast we parked in front of the TV so that Munson could watch his beloved UCLA bruins who he had always been more obsessed with than Albuquerque residents were with chili.  After it was determined that the 900 stations available through Palmer’s cable provider did not cover UCLA football, Munson lost it.  “The one condition I insisted on before I agreed to come down here was that I could watch this game on your TV.  I will not forget this!”  And with that Munson went out the front door and walked a half mile down the road to the nearest sports bar.  There is no way to overstate the drastic nature of this act as it was far further than he'd walked in the last 30 years if not his entire life.  Palmer continued to insist that he could find the game on his TV but after an hour with no success he drove me down to the sports bar.

We found Munson seated at the bar with a bloody Mary barking at the action on the TV perched above the bar.  Munson had found a soul mate and the two of them were seated next to each other cheering on UCLA.  Somehow, together they had strong armed the bar tender to switch channels to a UCLA game in a part of the country that couldn’t care less about a school in Southern California.  UCLA was winning and despite the walk Munson’s mood had been transformed to down-right giddy.  Palmer and I joined them at the bar to watch the game.  A few minutes after we had sat down and exchanged greetings with Munson’s new best friend an odd thing took place.  Munson’s new buddy turned to Palmer and said, “You’re Rob Palmer aren’t you?” 

Palmer answered, “Yes, why do you ask?”

The fellow then said, “You and I were both at Craig Johnson’s house last week and I sat across the table from you during dinner.”

Somewhat perplexed by this, Palmer said, “Imagine that.”

In hindsight, I suppose I may have missed telling evidence that something was amiss.  Unfortunately, the incident was too subtle for me too pick up on in contrast with the frequent over-the-top public outbursts to which I had become accustomed.

When the game was over we returned to Palmer’s place with more beer and a good supply of tortillas and made a substantial dent in the cache of carne adovada.  We had become addicted to the stuff and finished it off before Munson and I left Albuquerque a day and a half later. 

Both Munson and I withdrew from any contact with Palmer for the next fifteen years.  Then a letter arrived at Munson's place that was the result of Palmer’s working his way through the 12 steps of a substance abuse program.  The letter was part of an effort to express regrets to family and friends for past offenses.  The letter revealed that Palmer had been institutionalized for a year during which he believed he was Jesus Christ.  This proved to be a passing phase and medication had brought his bipolar condition under control.

Some years later I found on the internet his obituary published in the Deming Headlight, his home town newspaper.  I was intrigued by the closing paragraph.

Photo from the Deming Headlight

      "Prior to his passing his plans had included traveling south to help the people
       of Mexico by offering them healthcare, but due to the unrest across the border, 
       he was unable to fulfill that dream. He had also purchased the old pool hall 
       building on Silver Street (built in 1913), hoping to one day restore it to its 
       former glory.”

Street view image from Google maps