Restaurant Review: Authentic Mexican Food at La Parrilla Suiza

UPDATE JUNE 2013 - MY FAVORITE LOCATION NEAR PV MALL HAS CLOSED. THERE ARE OTHER LOCATIONS (TRY 35TH AVE AND PEORIA), BUT THIS ONE IS GONE. I WRITE THESE WORDS THROUGH A PRODIGIOUS FLOOD OF ALLIGATOR TEARS.

What does that mean to you – “authentic?” I’m not a food snob, not in the least. As a child of Arizona and the Southwest, despite my northern European bloodlines, I am probably more like my Mexican neighbors in tastes and attitudes than I am my American cousins from the eastern USA; and… just like there are differences in American cuisine (meaning USA, and no slight intended to all the other Americans) from one part of the country to the next here in the good old US of A, our neighbors to the south can boast massive differences in their cuisine from one state to the next, from east to west, from south to north, and all along the long Mexican coastline!

Authentic, to my way of thinking, is simply this… does the food or dish use the tastes and ingredients common to that place? Here, in El Extremo México del Norte más allá de Sonora, authentic is most likely going to elicit opinions that Sonoran-style food is what is auténtico! Broaden your horizons, my friends! If you find someone from Jalisco to cook for you there will be subtle differences in tastes and styles from those of their neighbors in Tamaulipas.  Likewise, if the chef is from a coastal town farther west, say in Colima, you will find differences there as well.

Around here, with our strict blinders on for las comidas del Sonora, if a cook prepares a dish that is in some way not common to the far north of Mexico, well, some folks will say that dish isn’t authentic… it’s just not MEXICAN food. Hogwash. Food and its preparation changes over time, and a new-fangled chimichanga made in Tucson is just as Mexican in style, ingredient and spirit as the simplest, homeliest tamal. Get over it – and chow down!

So, with this in mind… my favorite Mexican food restaurant here in Arizona is La Parrilla Suiza (for the remainder of this essay, simply La Parrilla). This being so, I will try to remain objective while I review it for you; this will be difficult for me, as I get quite excited just thinking about going there... Later on, I will tack on a quick suggestion for those who simply want excellence in the basics of Sonoran-style Mexican cuisine (a different place altogether). La Parrilla, by the way, has several locations in both Phoenix and in Tucson. "Mine" is located near Paradise Valley Mall, in NE Phoenix.

La Parrilla serves what they term “Mexico City-style” foods. Those of you not familiar with a little Español might not know the name means “the Swiss Grill.” Why Swiss, I don’t know. Most people understand “grill” though. Much of the food is slightly different than the Arizona (or Sonoran) norm – but La Parrilla also makes a few of the Sonoran dishes for those folks who are trapped in the Sonoran rut! You can get your enchiladas, your tamales, your refritos, but if you really want to taste the foods La Parrilla excels at, try one of the Mexico City-styled dishes! If you cannot pick them out, ask your server; I have never met even one at La Parrilla who was not gracious and helpful. They are even patient enough to patronize my sad attempts to speak Spanish (despite the extra time that this takes!).



The dining room with a view to the kitchen through the glass

I have my favorites. I find quite frequently that a simple dish can often be as good as one a little more complex. I find this especially true when it comes to the flavors of Mexico. There are several things that I usually order to get a feel for a Mexican place – for Sonoran food it is usually a green corn tamale, the green chile, chiles rellenos and flan; maybe a simple enchilada.

Except for the flan, I rarely order these things at La Parrilla. Here, for me, keeping simple means something grilled -- something in the "Mexico City style" -- perhaps a taco alambre, a bowl of charro beans (and the obligatory flan). This is enough food to satisfy me for several hours – on the other hand, if I order a plate, so much food is included that I can barely walk out the door. I try not to do this so much; I have learned that enough is as good as a feast -- bastante bien.  Unfortunately, in my quest to get some good pictures, I did order more than usual today... and I almost ate it ALL.

Tacos Alambres y chilaquiles, arroz tambien!  Combo No. 17, pienso.

A taco alambre (ordered a la carte) is a small fresh (soft) corn tortilla, open face on the plate. It is topped with an abundance (in relation to the tortilla) of your choice of diced chicken or beef (I much prefer beef) and onion, peppers, bacon and seasonings. I may order an extra tortilla as there is enough of the meat mixture to split it between two of the little corn delicacies. About the only thing I add to them is a bit of the salsa (perhaps the pico or the green avocado) and a slight bit of the lettuce that is served on the side. More likely, I ask for a side of the house dressing, and make a little salad out of the garnish. The dressing is a sweet vinaigrette and it is very tasty.

Charro beans are a simple bean side dish – pintos (or perhaps pinks) simmered in a rich broth with a bit of (bacon?) for flavoring along with other herbs and spices. I’ve been trying to duplicate these at home for over ten years with no luck. Mine don’t even come close. At La Parrilla, all I add to attain perfection is a touch of black pepper.  These beans are very flavorful... ¡Muy sabroso! If you click on the photo, you get a larger view and you can see the beans in the little bowl beyond the plate.  They even look delicioso!



Flan with caramel sauce

Dessert for me is always flan – a rich egg custard somewhat similar to Crème Brulee except the sugar is not carmelized on the top – it is nestled underneath while the custard bakes. When the custard is tipped out onto a serving plate, the caramel sauce drips over the top and down the sides. This dish is a bit of heaven on Earth. Sometimes the custard is velvety smooth – other times it is a bit thicker and “mottled” in texture (more correctly, the cream curdles a bit when baked). There are people on both sides of this issue – some are upset if it isn’t mottled – others think it’s not right at all if it isn’t perfectly smooth. Hey, I like ‘em both.


Chips and the salsas!  ¡Me gusto mucho!

Finally, the beginning! Like most Mexican establishments, La Parrilla serves tortilla chips and salsa at the beginning of the meal. These are complimentary for the first round and one refill. After that there is a charge for them. This doesn't bother me; if you eat more than the 1st refill of the chips and salsas, you're not only a pig you're not going to have room for your entree either.  So there. The chips are served with three (count ‘em!) salsas, whereas the norm with other places is one.

Upscale places usually serve a pico-style salsa (chunky and sometimes fresh or raw); more traditional Mexican cafés serve only a spicy red sauce. But at La Parilla, you get the red sauce, you get the fresh pico de gallo, and you also get a green avocado-based sauce. All three are great and I cannot name a favorite – although I tend to eat more of the green with the chips than anything else. I try to save the chunky fresh pico for the meal – I’ll likely put some on the top of my tacos. The green salsa is cool and smooth and subtle to start, then the heat grows on you a little bit. None of these are hot enough to burn you too badly, but they are not totally mild either. So if you are sensitive to such things, start slowly. I’m just sayin.’

There are many other entrees and selections that are very good -- from the combinations to the appetizers. I have many times enjoyed the chilaquiles, the fajitas, or La Parrilla's very different take on "Taco Salad." Chilaquiles are a house specialty and they are like a cheese enchilada in a bowl -- layers of tortilla, sauce and cheese. The sauce is a very light tomato-based mixture and has a delicate and bright tomato flavor.  It's a stand-out in terms of great flavor.

The more you stay with the specialties of the house, the better your experience will be -- in my opinion. As you leave, be sure to grab one of the lime and cream hard candies in the bowl by the door. These are not your normal restaurant peppermint. Perhaps, like me, you’ll find yourself addicted to them soon.  Oh... like most places these days, many of the beverages are bottomless.  Not the specialties of course, but the soft drinks, teas, etc.

Now, for all of you folks who just cannot abide anything that isn’t just like every other Mexican food place in Arizona, you maybe won’t like La Parrilla all that much, perhaps. That’s fine, less of a crowd I’ll have to deal with when I go there! There are a few places that are simply better than the others when it comes to Sonoran-style food, and I cannot name them all here. Probably every Southwesterner who loves Mexican food has their favorite. But if Sonoran is your only thing, you might try El Bravo on north 7th Street in Sunnyslope. When it comes to Sonoran, there simply isn’t a better place. It’s inexpensive, the operation is friendly (run by La Familia Tafoya), and the food is great. Sometimes the service is a little slow, but those of us who love the place don't care about that so much. Try the green corn vegetable tamal or a relleno. You can’t beat it. If you go at dinner time, expect a crowd and maybe a wait... everyone else knows this "secret" place too.

But when I take visitors or friends for the best Mexican food to be found north or south of the Gila, an authentic taste of the real Mexico, I take them to La Parrilla Suiza.

Adventures in Camping

I have loved camping since I was little and can remember camping trips from the time I was three or four years old. I can tell lots of great stories about these adventures.  Camping (for me) has nothing to do whatsoever with trailers or "campers."  I am a tenter -- or I sleep totally exposed under the broad, clear western skies.  There is nothing in my mind that is dangerous about this -- but I am not defenseless either.

One of my very first camping memories was a trip to Flagstaff back in the 50s for the All-Indian Pow-Wow. The interstate highway did not exist then and the road to Flagstaff (partially) was the present day route of 89A from Cottonwood through Sedona. The campground where we stayed was along that stretch of 89A that runs straight to Flagstaff from the top of the Oak Creek Canyon switchbacks through those tall old growth Ponderosa pines; it was on the east side of that highway. I can sometimes still pick out the spot where that camp was today, given the opportunity to watch the scenery. What was memorable about that night was I saw a porcupine! I think I have only ever seen two of them in my entire life – on that camping trip and then one in Juneau, Alaska in summer 2009 at the top of the aerial tramway. Porcupines must be fairly reclusive (that, or there just aren’t that many around here).

In the 60s, as Tina and I got older, Mom would take us on camping trips around Arizona. One summer, we went over to Mt. Graham and camped up on the mountain. We had bears in camp and heard mountain lions screaming in the night. We cowered in our borrowed tent until morning and then fled north to Luna Lake where there wasn’t so much excitement. Of course mountain lions are still scary critters, but I have become woods-wise enough to know that a black bear really isn’t much of a threat – no more so really than a coon and for the same reason – they’re usually just foraging and if you don’t provide them a source of food, they avoid you. I’m more likely to sit up and watch a black bear, than I am to run, as we shall later discuss. I like bears. ‘Course, there ain’t no Grizzlies ‘round here… anymore.

Motorcycle camping… when I was about 16 or 17, David Beaver and I undertook a back country camping trip on our motorcycles. David had a Kawasaki 175 and I had a little Honda twin (125cc). We rode up north past Cave Creek and slept on the picnic tables at the Seven Springs campground. I had bought a little “pocket warmer” at the Yellow Front store – it was like an over-sized cigarette lighter (Zippo variety) and it had some kind of long burning wick inside. Once lit, you kept it in your pocket in a little flannel sack to warm your hands, etc. As I slept on the picnic bench, every so often the danged thing would get uncomfortable in whichever pocket I had placed it – so I would move it to a different pocket, a different part of my body. In the morning, nearly frozen despite all the effort, I discovered I had little “pocket warmer” shaped burns all over – wherever there was a pocket the thing had resided in.

Later that day, covered with uncomfortable little pocket warmer burns and riding west through the rugged wilderness toward I-17 on Table Mesa Road, the nut fell off my rear axle on the side of a steep mountain – on a 4WD road and 20 miles from West Bumfuzzle. We sat there trying to figure out what to do next. David is one of those people who has an ability to think things through and come up with practical solutions – and as we waited there on the mountainside, we saw far below us on the road a Toyota Land-cruiser that was working its way up the hill. When it got to us, we could see the lone occupant trying to figure out how to get around us without stopping. Oh, he tried... but there was no possible way. David checked with him to see if he had anything we could use to get my motorcycle rolling again. He had a wire clothes hanger. David took the front axle nut off my bike, reassembled the rear axle with it, and then wired the front axle in with that clothes hanger. His impromptu repair lasted long enough to get me home and I’ve always considered him somewhat of a genius.

When Jannie and I got married in 1972, we couldn’t afford a real honeymoon. So we went camping. We drove up toward Flagstaff and pitched a little rented tent under some trees off the road – next morning we discovered we had camped in a neighborhood, with houses all around. We hadn’t seen them in the dark the night before – and we were practically on someone’s doorstep! Three years later, in May 1975, we took a two-week trip up through the national park country, then over to the Pacific coast and south to San Diego, one end of the country to the other. The first night out, at Zion National Park, the wind came up and blew our tent down around us. Who needs tent stakes anyway, right? The next night at Bear Lake, Utah, we almost froze to death – I think it may even have snowed. I know there was still existing snow on the ground. The campground where we stayed wasn’t even open, but we pitched the tent anyway.  This time WITH the tent stakes.

The next night, we were ready for a break, so we got a room at Jackson Lake at Grand Tetons National Park. The lake was still frozen solidly enough that the locals were driving pick-up trucks on it. Then we went on up through Yellowstone – and had one of the strangest camping experiences of all – there was 5 feet of snow on the ground – but we stayed warm and comfortable camping at Mammoth Hot Springs.  The temperatures around the hot springs and geysers were probably 40 degrees warmer than the rest of the park; the difference between that area and the surrounding park, which was still gripped in winter’s cold, was nothing less than amazing.  Later on that trip, at Manchester, California on the Pacific Coast highway, we slept outside the tent on the ground in our sleeping bags. I think that was the first time Jannie had ever done that – she was a little scared about the idea at first, but soon was enjoying herself as we lay in our bags staring up at the stars. We were on a bluff high above the Pacific surf and we could hear the waves crashing onto the beach far below.

On one of our first camping trips together, we rented a little tent and of course we weren’t very good at setting it up (even though I’m sure it was pretty simple). We camped at Christopher Creek, and in those days, the camp sites were right on the creek. Unfortunately, it began to rain in the late afternoon as it often does on summer afternoons along the Mogollón Rim. But unlike most days, the rain didn’t stop… it was still raining at 9 o'clock that night. So we burrowed into the tent for the duration, ate our dinner in there and played cards until we figured it was time to sleep. About midnight, we woke up and looked out and the sky was clear – so I decided to raise the tent’s flap outside the entry, so the inside could start to dry out.

Not being familiar with the tent, this took quite a number of minutes. I had a very weak flashlight. After I finished the job, I flashed that very weak light around the campsite, and was greeted by two enormous yellow eyes staring back from about five or ten feet away. I jumped back in the tent and sniveled until I fell asleep... In the morning, we discovered bobcat tracks in the wet dirt outside! He probably stood there the whole time I worked on that flap, trying to decide if I was “worth” killing and eating.

When my kids were small, we often went camping in the summers. Once, all four of us went up to Valentine Ridge – John was only four or five at the time. Sleeping in the tent, I sensed that something was amiss, and I looked around – John was standing over Mandy and… uh… relieving himself “in her direction.” I guess he thought he was outside the tent… but he was only half-awake. I’m not sure that Mandy or Rod slept too much after that; they probably both kept one eye open. John, on the other hand, slept pretty well.

Another time, at Oak Creek Canyon, we were all four sitting around the picnic table and eating our supper – one kid says to another kid – “stop touching me” – so I looked under the table to see if I could apprehend the most-guilty culprit. It wasn’t kid touching kid at all – but skunks touching kids. There was an entire family of skunks under the table hoping for scraps to fall. I very quietly told the children not to look, and not to move. We sat there stock-still until those polecats got tired of waiting and ambled away, leaving us unmolested, “unfragranced” and extremely relieved.

In the late 80s, the whole family took a camping trip to Vallecito Lake, near Durango, Colorado. Most of us anyway. On the trip home, Mom and Dad got a head start on me and the kids by about 20 minutes. We were to meet at a highway junction near Four Corners to regroup. I thought I’d have a good joke on them by taking a short cut (which I saw on my map) and which would cut off about 30 or 40 miles from the distance to the meeting point -- I would still get there before them -- or so I thought. Halfway into that shortcut, I found the road completely blocked off and closed. So I had to go all the way back around and then cover the original miles as well.

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad were waiting at the aforementioned highway junction – and they finally thought maybe they had the wrong one. So they drove south to Shiprock, and then east toward Farmington to another junction they thought might be the one. While they were doing their little eastward leg, I arrived at the original junction, and not finding them there, went on south toward home as I thought they must have done. This is in the days before any of us had cell phones. When they got to the new junction, and of course we weren’t there, they drove back to Shiprock, and then north again to Cortez, Colorado to look for us there.

Meanwhile, 20 miles or so south of Shiprock, I broke down. With three kids in the car, I am stranded 20 miles in the middle of northwest New Mexico. A Navajo fellow on his way home to Dulce stopped and offered us a ride back to town – once in his truck I realized he was fairly well lit by spirituous liquors… but we were already in there and we made it to Shiprock thanks to him. I got a tow truck to take us back out to get the car. The tow and repair took most of the afternoon (just fan belts), and it took almost every penny I had. I was a starving college student at the time and had no credit cards.

From Cortez, Mom and Dad had the forest rangers and the county sheriff looking for us. I figured out by this time they were probably wondering where we were, so I called Ruth at home to see if they had called there. They hadn’t yet, but they eventually did, and the kids and I headed for home with about $5 left in my pocket for supper (McDonalds) and just enough gasoline. We beat Mom and Dad home by several hours. Dad was disgruntled, Mom was still laughing.

Then there was the time...  Some friends and I went up to the White Mountains, and we camped near Big Lake.  John and I were hanging out in the morning, after a good rain, and we were making breakfast for us and for Ms. Minette, who was camping with us.  We had everything set up for cooking underneath a vinyl-plastic canopy -- and with the rain that canopy trapped water and filled up just like a lake. It was four poles, topped by a big flexible lake of icy cold water. As the rain continued lightly, the pool of water trapped on the top got larger and larger and eventually tripped (or more correctly, tipped) past the point where the canopy shuddered and shifted so that the 35 degree water could drain off right down the back of my neck as I prepared the breakfast bacon. 

On one of my last camping trips, a few years back, Mandy and I went to one of my favorite places. She and I both know where it was, but I won’t mention it here as it is our family’s secret place. Keeping it to ourselves ensures we will never find a crowd there. We were sleeping in the tent and I woke up about 5:30 AM – it was starting to get light, but still very dim outside. I heard something. What I heard was the biggest black bear… brown actually…. that I have ever seen in Arizona. Bears hereabouts are usually the size of large raccoons, but this boy was huge. He was trying to see if anything was in the back of my truck that he might want to eat – and when I sat up on my cot, he backed down, turned around and started ambling away, looking at me out of the corner of his eye as if to say, “hey, I ain’t doing nothing, I’m just passing through…” He was just a big doofus brown black bear. Well, I wanted Mandy to see him – so I touched her arm and whispered her name. When I did, the bear bolted off up the hillside. I think all Mandy got to see of him was his big brown butt scrambling up the hill.

Despite all of this mayhem, I still enjoy camping. I don’t know why. But there are no bad memories in camping, not for me. Except maybe that one time I fried up a fresh trout inside the tent because it was raining outside up at Hawley Lake… took ten years or so to air that tent out. But I’d go again tomorrow if the weather was warmer, smelly fish, cold rain and all.

Thanksgiving 2010

I am smoking the turkey for the first time this year – I have done breasts before but not a whole bird. I got a smaller one, about eleven pounds and have it in the smoker with some apple wood at 325 degrees and steady. It should be ready in about two or three more hours at the most. My part of Thanksgiving dinner will be the turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy. I will make a pumpkin pie; Mom is doing the rest – a fruit salad and green beans. We will eat well.

Things for which I am thankful… I am thankful for being born in this, the free-est country in the world. There are others like us in the free world, but my nation started the movement 250 years ago. I am especially thankful for the men and women who came before us, struggled and made this possible. When I think of those in other parts of the world, even civilized parts of the world, like China, who cannot even speak their thoughts without risk of retribution, persecution, even death, then I think that I am most fortunate.

We acknowledge that things are not perfect, but we can grouse and complain without fear. And we truly can change some of the things we don’t like. Oh yes, it is a struggle and sometimes we fail when we find there are overwhelming powers that are arrayed against us, but there is unresistable power in our citizenry when we unite.  May we never forget that.  And someday, our rights and freedoms will be universal for ALL Americans; we will make that happen.

I am thankful for my health as good as it is, and for the medical care and science that helps me maintain it. I should take better care of myself! I could make better choices sometimes, but Nurse Teel is a goddess!

I am thankful for my lovely dottir, who is finding her way in the world and making a success of herself as a human being. I am glad that all my children are healthy; I love them all.

I am especially thankful for the extracurricular privileges I have been afforded; so many others struggle just to survive, but I have an easy existence and in particular, I have been able to travel and learn beyond my equitable share, beyond what was even imaginable for an average human being just 150 years ago.

I am grateful for many simple things; sitting outside in the evening to watch the sunset or the stars, campfires, rich coffee with chocolate, or just chocolate… hearing waves crash onto a shore, a good book…my warm and snug bed in the early morning – or the LATE morning as the case may be. I am so fortunate to have the few good friends that bless me… Dave, Gloria and Jim, Dick and Susie, Minette, Chad and Lisa, and some others.  I am also fortunate to have such a simple, uncomplicated life.  I treasure the warmth of the Arizona sunshine on my face and am most thankful for warm, home-made apple pie.

I am lucky beyond measure to have a profession that I love; one that can have a positive impact on others’ lives, if they would just LISTEN to me!

I am thankful for my family, especially those that came just before me, many of whom I knew and loved but are no longer present in this particular world. Life is short, fast and by no means certain. The older I get, the more I realize that each moment is essentially stolen time. I am thankful for all those stolen moments and for those still to come should there be more.  I am thankful to be living in this exciting time.

I am thankful for all of these things.

Rex admirabilis
et triumphator nobilis,
dulcedo ineffabilis,
totus desiderabilis, totus desiderabilis.

In Search of William Swain

In the spring of 1849, William Swain rode away from his family’s farm in Youngstown, New York and joined in one of the seminal adventures of American history. He caught a lake steamer to Chicago, another boat to St Louis, and a third to Independence, Missouri, where he bought into a “joint-stock company” of Michigan men who then set off on foot, horseback and wagon to the California goldfields. Narrowly avoiding disaster, they barely made it before winter snows froze the California mountains.

He waited out the winter of ’49-‘50, then labored for little gain along some California rivers through the summer and fall before his family convinced him to give up his golden dream and return home to New York. He left California, traveled by packet ship to Central America, and there trekked through the isthmus jungles from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast. He boarded a steamer to New York City via Havana, arrived ill, but his ever-steadfast brother George found him there and brought him home to Youngstown. He lived out a long life and died an old man as he worked in his garden.

William was “everyman,” participating in a national adventure that changed America and that shapes our lives and thoughts about ourselves even today. It is difficult to overstate the impact the California gold rush had on the history and development of the United States and its people. What made Swain even more significant to history is that he wrote a literate, complete and coherent account, a diary, of his journey to California. He also communicated by letter from along the California Trail. He continued writing letters while he waited through the winter and then worked in the California gold “diggings” the following summer. These documents were treasured by his children and grandchildren and finally were offered to historian and professor J. S. Holliday who used them to complete a book; that book is one of the most engrossing and interesting accounts of the Gold Rush migration available today. (J.S. Holliday; The World Rushed In)

What I found most fascinating about William Swain was that he didn’t disappear as many of his gold rush contemporaries did. Even the ones who wrote about their experiences tended to be a part of that one national moment and then nothing else; there were a few exceptions of course. In general though, where did they go? How did the Gold Rush experience shape their subsequent lives? Like few others, you can easily find the answers to those questions for William Swain. History is a composite of all the little stories that made up our ancestor’s lives – and here is one of them, laid out in detail for us to enjoy. Forget how the study of history “helps us not to repeat the mistakes of the past,” and “if you want to see where we’re going, you have to look where we’ve been.” With Swain’s diary and letters, presented in Holliday’s book in concert with the larger history of the 1849 gold rush as a background, we can see how one extraordinary citizen, along with his friends and family, participated in one of the greatest mass migrations in any nation’s history. This is exciting stuff!

I have stood on the ground where Washington accepted the British surrender at Yorktown and touched the seam of his tent (on display there). I have walked in Travis' footsteps at the Alamo. I've seen the track of the Wright Brothers’ first flight at Kitty Hawk. I know at ground level the place where Crazy Horse was murdered at Fort Robinson, NE; where Custer surveyed the Little Bighorn Valley in Montana from a mountaintop just before his last fight, and the exact spot where Geronimo stood to have his photograph taken at Fort Bowie, AZ one September day in 1886. I can pick out and match the foundation stones in now-ruined frontier Army post homes as I compare them against historical photographs. I have read the inscribed signatures of 49ers and others on the Register Cliffs, along the dry-desert route of the California-Oregon Trail. And I have stood where William Swain stood, both on the trail, and at home in Youngstown. Being in these places, on the ground where our ancestors stood and knowing the history that took place there is moving – and exhilarating.

After re-reading Swain’s diary in The World Rushed In for about the third time, I thought that if I was ever able to visit Youngstown, NY, I would see if I could find William and his family. He lived in a “cobblestone farmhouse” on the “River Road.” On his return to Youngstown in 1851, he became a prosperous farmer, a peach-grower, one of the largest in western New York in his day. His brother and best friend George, also in Youngstown, was a public servant for most of his lifetime. Would there not still be some traces of them around their life-long home?

Looking at maps of the Youngstown area, I found Swain Road. Given the description of the farm in the book, I could almost guess where the Swain farmhouse was built (in 1836). I made plans to go there, look for the house and see if I could find the graves of William, George and their families.

I drove to the corner of Swain Road and Main Street in Youngstown in October 2008, and from there to the place where I thought the cobblestone house would be. There was nothing there but a very small pump-house. Disappointed that my satellite photo and map-sleuthing were errant (how can one mistake a six-foot tall pump house for a farmhouse!), I headed back out toward the highway – but stopped when I saw a resident and asked him if he knew anything about the Swains. He did. He directed me to the nearby home of Betty Van Zandt – and said I should speak with her about her home – which I found had been built by William for his daughter Lila (or Eliza). I was in the right neighborhood after all. Betty Van Zandt referred me to Margery Stratton, who, she said, could help me with further information about the local area, she having sold most of the houses in the area, some more than once.

Swain's home

It turned out the “cobblestone farmhouse” so often mentioned by William in his writings was immediately next door. I took photos, walked around, and looked for any peach trees that might have descended from those that William and his brother had planted. I didn’t find any -- but peach trees aren’t known for being long-lived.

I read the monument near the house about the battle that took place in pre-Revolutionary War times on that very spot. I took photos of the foundation stones in the bridge across the drainage in front of the house – figuring they were most likely original to the time the farm was built. I wondered which upper-story window Sabrina Swain might have sat behind as she wrote letters to her absent and sorely-missed husband, and where in the yard William’s garden and grape vines might have been. Then I went to meet Margery Stratton.

I spent an hour or so with Ms Stratton at the local historical society’s library, reading some of the letters and information written about the Swains, who were prominent local citizens. Armed with information provided by the helpful members of the society, I set off to the Oakland Rural Cemetery to find the Swains.

It took some time, but I found all the last resting places of the family – except for father Isaac, and his 2nd wife, Patience. Perhaps they are in a different part of the cemetery – or in an older cemetery somewhere close by. William and Sabrina’s youngest son is also not with the rest of the family

After reading so much about them, I feel almost as if they are friends. Seeing their home in Youngstown and the places that were familiar to them, when I read the passages they wrote I can imagine more vividly what their lives were like; what they saw, almost what they felt at certain times.

As William returned home from the California gold fields in 1851, he and George topped the hill south of Youngstown in their wagon, probably about where Ridge Road above Lewiston is today. They stopped, and William stood up to survey the valley he had not seen for almost two years. He pronounced it the most beautiful of all the scenes he had witnessed. Don’t we all feel that way about our homes? You can see that same view today – just as he did when he returned from his long gold-rush quest. When I last saw it, it was cloaked in the beautiful autumn colors of northern New York State. And based on the description in J.S. Holliday’s book, I knew exactly what I was looking at; William had seen and vividly described the same view in 1851.

Now that I've seen William and Sabrina's New York home, perhaps I can see his diggings on the other side of the country. I think I just might be able to find the spot where William and his partners built their cabin and dug for gold on the beautiful Feather River above Sacramento, California. Today, the exact site is under lake water, but I might be able to get close.

Las aventuras en México: Gen y Bob fue a la playa...

Gen on Los Algodones Playa, San Carlos, Sonora

A few years ago, my friend Gen and I went to the beach… in Mexico. We both like the beach; we both like Mexico. It seemed a natural thing to do. Now, it was a great trip and we both have many wonderful memories from it I’m certain. But Gen has made dark allusions to our adventure on this blog and I must set the record straight and clear my good name.

There are many things to tell about this journey… all about getting through customs without getting arrested for faulty paperwork, how we drove into town and walked around after dark without getting kidnapped or killed, how we ate the fruit and drank the water… how we survived a federale roadblock and drove on a narrow mountain highway with Mexican truck and autobus drivers and actually lived to tell about it. How we negotiated the rush hour downtown traffic of Hermosillo with calmness and tranquility… Not least, I could tell how U.S. Customs was so hungry and deprived of ripe red apples that they confiscated mine just so they could have one. After all, that must have been the reason because it was an American apple, not a Mexican apple. But these fine stories will have to wait for another occasion.

Today, I just want to tell you about the beach. Since Ms. Genevieve has brought it up… We both wanted to spend some time on the beach so we drove out to Los Algodones beach just about an hour before sunset. The beach was a few miles north of Guaymas (and San Carlos) and we were told it was one of the nicest ones around there. On arrival, we discovered we had it all to ourselves. This made us both a little uneasy but we stayed anyway. There was no parking lot, of course, so we pulled my ½ ton truck onto the seemingly hard-packed sand of the beach.

A couple of words about the beach itself – it lies next to a scimitar-shaped “bay” and trying to reconstruct its dimensions from my memory, I’d say maybe ¼ mile long. It was a couple of hundred feet wide at the most – maybe much less. But it was a beautiful little beach with a beached boat on it (see photo) and some islands offshore that lent a ruggedness to its scenic appearance. Some of the scenes from the film “Catch 22” were filmed there. Again, there was no parking lot. We drove out onto the sand… for a few feet; the sand was fairly hard-packed and was no problemo. Farther out, it got softer and thicker, even, you might say, fluffier. Gen kept saying “go a little farther out” and “park over there, why don’t you…” So I did.

We got our ice chest, spread an old sleeping bag on the sand and enjoyed the remaining rays of the sun and watched a beautiful sunset. Gen had a glass of wine and I drank a Diet Coke… and we smoked cigars! These were not big stogie-type cigars, but thinner cigarillo-type cigars. And I swear I did NOT inhale… So the sun goes down. It gets dark. And we start to feel very alone and vulnerable.

Gen, another beach, another day...

By and by we decide to head back to town. We loaded up the truck and I thought it might be easy to just turn around in a circle instead of backing up. Had we stayed on the harder-packed portions of the beach, this would not have been too much of a problem. But on that softer, fluffier sand, it was. Pretty soon, the truck was dug in up to the wheels. Well, we investigated all our options. No help in sight. Not too much in the way of tools to dig ourselves out. Several miles to walk back to town, leaving the truck on the beach unprotected. None of this seemed of any promise, exactly. What we did have, was a sleeping bag. 

So I jammed the sleeping bag under the rear wheels to gain a little traction and then we both tried to push but that didn’t work. Then I got Gen to push and I steered and depressed the accelerator just so. This took great finesse… and got us a few feet at a time before we’d run out of sleeping bag. Then we’d move the remnant of the bag to the front of the tire again and repeat the process. And repeat, and repeat, and repeat. Finally, we reached the firmer sand and we were both able to get in the truck and ride. Genevieve was really great at pushing though, I have to say; she is quite a truck-pusher.

I learned several lessons on Los Algodones Playa…

1. Never drive your street pick-up truck on the beach. ANY beach.

2. Make sure you take tools, so that if you do get (inadvertently) off-road and find yourself mired, you can get out easily. At minimum, at least have a nice, thick, sleeping bag.

3. Make sure you have a strong and healthy young person to “help” push – while you steer of course and finesse that accelerator. No one knows how to do this better than you.  I mean, it's your truck, right?

4. Alternatively, you might wish to confine your beach adventures to those strands where you will always have plenty of company. It is a sinking feeling to find yourself hopelessly mired on a lonely beach five miles from the nearest town…

It sure was a pretty beach though. I was very happy to share it with my friend.

Rambling recollections of old Tombstone as put down by Harley Joe, a local cowboy (1929); being an account of the gunfight at the OK Corral.

Wyatt Earp died just t'other day. I knew him. My name is Harley J. McClendon, and I was a cow-hand. Now that I'm gettin older, I want to put down some of my thoughts and opinions 'bout those old days on paper while I can still remember how it was. You know how that goes… you get to be eighty or so and purty soon, you cain’t remember nuthin.

I was there when the Earp brothers shot the McLowrys and Billy Clanton. Well, near-by anyways. I hear'd the gunfight. I was about as far away as a boy could hit a rabbit with a sling-shot. There been lots of arguments about what really happened, one side sayin' things, the other side disagreein' about it. I got my own opinion.

Most folks who was around then know exactly what happened and why. It warnt no mystery. Some others want to change the truth and make their friends or relations look better to folks who don’t know no better. I’ve seen it writ down lots that the McLowrys and Billy was murdered. That’s horse dung. They was killed legal and justifiable because they bumped and bully-ragged the law. Same thing would happen today, if you done the same as they did. And the Earp brothers was the law, that's a fact.

I was working on ranches around that area – I been a cowhand all my life, startin in Texas when I was just a snot-nose. I followed Texas John to this place when he moved his herd from Texas to Arizona, and then I kindy stayed around here right up until today. It’s pretty country and there was always lots of work. Texas John was a good man, but mostly I worked for Mr. Hooker up by Benson. I’m too old to work now, so I hangs out around Benson or Willcox mostly and plays cards with my buddies -- them that's still upright anyways -- and I drinks whisky sometimes.

During the summer of 1881 when I was about 30 years of age, I broke my laig and couldn’t do my usual chores around Mr. Hooker’s place. He offered me work close-in that didn’t require me to work around the stock much – so as to give my laig a chance to heal up proper, but a workin hand doesn’t get the chance to hang around town reg'lar, so I told ‘im I’d rather go work in town for a few months and maybe see what was happenin around there. Experience the wild side, so to say. Tombstone was a hoppin’ place around then, so that’s where I went. I got work at Vogan’s takin care of things behind the bar. I warn’t fast but I did OK. Nobody complained much and even those that did warnt likely to pick on a cripple much.

During those months the bad blood between the Earps and the rough bunch called “the Cowboys” just got worse and worse. The “Cowboys” wasn’t all bad folk – some of ‘em I liked pretty well and got along with mostly. Some were worse than others, but that’s about the way it is I think, pretty much always. There’s reg'lar folk and then there’s bullies, there's princes and there's skunks. Some folks would say the Earps was bullies but I’d just say they was straightforward. They wouldn’t tolerate no rudeness. At the same time, if you got in the way of a "Cowboy’s" biness, they’d come down on you pretty hard too.  And that’s what the Earps done. So I reckon there was always bound to be trouble between ‘em.

I think that right off, the Earps just tried to avoid the Cowboys. They was wantin to be biness men, and stay out of the law biness. Then Virgil got into the law biness anyways by bein hired by Marshal White as a deputy and as the days went by, the Cowboys felt like the Earps was in their way. They didn’t like that and they run their mouths too much about what they was goin to do about it – and you caint threaten men like Wyatt or Virgil Earp too much. They was too accustomed to takin’ charge of things before they get too out of hand, havin been in the law biness before and bein pretty good at it too. Once they felt like they was threatened, well, that’s when hell come down the street with ‘em.

I think the Cowboys never knew what kind of men they was facin' – they kept thinkin the Earps would cut and run. They never did. It says a lot that ever' time the Earps shot a body, it was face to face and gunplay was the last thing that happened. Every time them Cowboys shot a body, it was from behind or from ambush in the dark. That’s what kind of vermin some of them was, at least those that was involved in the Tombstone fracas. That's a fact. Some of 'em just wassent decent men.

Things got worse when Curly Bill Broshus ac'dently kilt Marshall White. Most folks thinks it really was a accident – but the Earps never could see that. Even the Marshal said it warnt a'purpose before he died and he were in a position to know. Curly Bill was down around where the Bird Cage is nowdays – but then it was not built yet. He was some likkered up and was shootin off his gun in the air, just whoopin’ it up. He ain’t the only one that ever done that. But Fred White went down there to take his guns away and Curly Bill whirled one of ‘em around on his fingers to give it to him (just playin' the fool and bein' sassy, you know) and when Marshal White grabbed the biness end of it, that Colt went off and shot him below the belly.

A bunch of us had gathered around and was watchin – and it sure looked like a accident to me. Right off Curly Bill was regretful about it. He said he liked Fred White and didn’t mean to shoot him (he din't die till later). But Virgil Earp was Fred White's deputy and he took Bill to jail and kep' him there. That were a good thing. There was lots of folks that wanted to exact punishment on Curly Bill right there on the spot 'cause lots of folks around here liked Fred White. But Virgil kep' him outta sight and safe until things calmed up some -- then Judge Spicer turned him loose again after he ruled it was a accidental death.

I know some of them cowboys thought Curly Bill was treated bad by them Earps when most everbody else said Bill never meant no harm. They thought Virgil was against 'em then and they never forgot that. I ain’t sayin the Earps was bad men – but they was hard men and sometimes they made a mistake or two. But they done Bill a favor that night. He never did return it though, right up until the day he died. He never gave 'em so much as a "how do you do."

This is probly where I ought to say what I know about Ike Clanton. Not too many folks thought much of 'im. I always thought him a blowhard and a bragger from what I saw, and he were always quick to get mad about any little thing. I thought he was a bully and a coward as most bullies are. Later events proved me right in that I reckon and in the end he came to no good and it warnt very long neither.

Ike’s pappy was kilt by Mexicans he had wronged over to Skeleton Canyon, in August that year I think. The Clantons was involved in “international trade.” Most of the stock they run was acquired after dark down in Sonora, and most the time they never waited around long enough to pay or get a "bill of sale,” if you understand my meaning. This makes them outlaws, I s'pose, but in those days this warnt really considered a bad thing unless it was the Mex'cans gettin’ their cows and caballos from you that way. Them kinds of cross-border transactions was common, all along the border all the way from Texas and the Rio Bravo. After his daddy was shot dead, Ike kinda lost his good nature some. He hanged out a lot in the waterin holes around town, or over to Charleston where his pappy’s ranch was. And mostly he was just looking to start fights other folks could finish for ‘im.

Before that, back in the Spring I think, the Clantons got sideways with the Earps and some others because they had one of Wyatt’s favorite horses, stole from him in 1879 or 80 and they knowed it was a stold horse and didn’t give it back. This got under Wyatt Earp’s skin and itched him some. Then the deal with Curly Bill and Fred White come about, and pretty soon there warnt no good feeling at all between any of ‘em. Around that time, there was stage robberies and other crimes that the Cowboys din’t deny too strongly bein’ a part of, and that kind of behavior never set too well with lawmen like Wyatt Earp. So in the end neither one of 'em was inclined to give the other much rope.

On the night before the fight, Ike was hanging around at the Oriental, playing cards with Virgil Earp and John Holliday. “Doc” was in a foul mood, which was pretty normal for 'im, he warn’t ever very affable anyways. But that night he was pos'tively mean. He wasn’t well, you know, and was mostly ornery ‘cause of that, and he might never been very nice in the first place. So him and Ike was pickin at each other all night long and things got pretty tense a few times. Doc knew how to get to 'im and warnt afraid to do it.

By the first light of the mornin, the game was breakin up and Ike and Holliday got into it pretty bad and Ike stomped out talkin death to the Earps and to Doc Holliday. Doc didn’t care much about what Ike said, kep' him in front of ‘im all the time mostly, didn't get rattled too much but kep' eggin him on too. But then Virgil tried to calm Ike down some, kep' tellin him to go get some sleep. Virgil threatened to arrest both of 'em if they didn't stop it. I didn’t see any of this, but honest people I knowed did. The barman at the Oriental was a friend of mine and he saw the whole fi-esta.

The whole town was hangin around and waitin for something to happen that morning. It was a fair and sunny day, crisp in the mornin and warm in the later hours – and very clear like you only see down in this country. You never saw such a blue sky. But things was tense. Everbody knew things was goin to bust loose that day. The Earps wasn’t out early, but the Clantons was. And later the McLowrys too.

So, me and Swain Slaughter was sittin out front of Vogan’s havin a smoke and just talkin about things, when we saw the McLowrys and Billy Claiborne walk by down on 4th Street, heading toward Fremont Street. We was about a block away and we couldn’t see where they went after they crossed Allen. So, being curious we got up and moved down ter in front of the Occidental Hotel on that corner to see if we could see what was goin to happen.

Up until that day, I never heard the McLowrys say nothin about the Earps – I don’t know they had ever met until then. That morning though, they was real mouthy about what they was going to do to the Earps, and Ike Clanton was blowin around town the same way. The McLowrys was tellin the whole town that they was against the Earps and Doc and they was goin to DO something about it right then. It warnt long before the Earps and Doc Holliday got wind of it. Ike already got hisself arrested once that morning – carryin a gun in town – and got fined and released by Judge Spicer. He was probly still half-lit from the night before playin’ cards and drinkin, and Virgil finally jerked him up, beaned him and hauled him down to the court. As he was leavin’ he threatened the Earps s'more, face to face. Those cowboys din’t appreciate anyone tellin 'em that the law applied to them too – not just other folks. They even threatened the judge a few times. And the Earps din't 'preciate bein threatened.

Around that same time, I heard Frank Wolcott say that Wyatt had came across Tom McLowry in the street and hit him over the head with his pistol when Tom threatened to fight him -- or kill him. It goes without sayin' that if the Earps intended to kill those men that they coulda killed both of 'em at these times, they'd a been justified, but they din’t. The Earps was basically honest men. But a smart man won't threaten a good man -- not if he knows what's what -- not if he wants to live to be a old man. Heck, them Earps coulda kilt Ike at the gunfight -- but they dint 'cause they thought he warnt armed. Even Doc coulda kilt him then but he din't -- and he were a cold, mean son-of-a-cuss.

Tombstone’s streets started to look pretty empty about then. There was some folks out watching the goins-on, but not that many, not like usual. Folks was afraid of getting hit by wild bullets I reckon. Wyatt was sittin in Hafford’s. Me an’ Swain could see him sittin in there smokin cause it was right across the street from where we was. Virgil was standin out front with Morgan on 4th Street in front of Hafford's, watchin where Ike and Billy Clanton, Billy Claiborne and the McLowrys went ter. Doc Holliday warn’t around right then – he mighta bin over at the Can Can, we warn’t sure.

A few minutes later, a coupla folks came from over around Fly’s and said that Billy and Ike Clanton and the McLowrys was over by Fly’s yelling around and saying how they was going to kill all the Earps and Doc too. In partic'lar, Ike was still holding bad feelins against Doc Holliday. Doc had a room with Mrs. Fly and I think they figured they’d waylay him when he came home from wherever he was at, four or five against one. I don’t think they figured on all the Earp brothers comin with ‘im. Them was odds they didn't like and I think it sobered 'em up some. But it was too late by then as things turned out.

Me an’ Swain watched Wyatt come out from Hafford’s, and he and Virgil talked for a couple of minutes. It looked like they was arguin. Morgan didn’t say much, from what we could see. Then Holliday walked over – we didn’t see where he come from - din't see him until he got there. And then they talked some more, maybe a minute or two. Then we seen Virgil hand Doc a short scatter gun, Doc put it under his coat and they all walked down 4th toward Fremont.

They turned left onto Fremont, and went out of sight around the corner, all walking side by side. It was something to see, like right out of the Bible. They wasn’t moving fast, nor slow. Just steady and determined like. This only took a couple of minutes at most and me and Swain was talking about whether we should go inside or not. Next thing we heard was the shootin. There was a bunch of that; we heard the shotgun twice, we heard lots of pistol fire and we heard rifle fire. And then it was all quiet except for a bunch of yellin and screamin.

We din’t go down there right away, not knowin what was happenin. After a few minutes, curiosity got the better of us and since it was getting quieter, we cut over through the OK livery and toward the back, where we heard the shots come from. Ike was doing most of the yellin – Virgil was wounded in the laig and it looked like everbody else except Morgan and Wyatt Earp was dead. Doc was scraped up some, I think a bullet grazed him a little. Tom was a'layin out in the road, dead. Billy Clanton was crumpled up against a wall and he died pretty hard from the looks of it. Frank was shot to pieces. The Earps was takin Virgil away, and some other folks took the bodies of Billy and the McLowrys into the house there next to where the fight was, on the other side of Fly's. Later on, the undertaker came and got them and put them all in coffins.

Mrs. Fly said Ike and Sheriff Behan run from the fight into her store until the shootin was all done (aint that funny -- the big instigator wer too much a coward to even be in the fight he started!). Then he started runnin his mouth again as usual, tellin everbody around that the Earps had murdered his brother. He never told how it was his big mouth that got the whole thing to the point where it warnt to be avoided.

Henry Sills said that the Earps and Doc walked up to where they was at, and faced them one for one. Virgil said they was there to take their guns, but while they was chewin on that, Doc pulled back the hammers on that scatter gun. They all heard those two big clicks and they all knowed what they was, and right then everbody started shootin. Virgil yelled right at the last that he didn't want gunplay, tried to stop it, but it wer too late. It only took a few seconds and them lawmen was cooler and better shots in a clinch than them Cowboys was.

Johnny Behan said he was gonna arrest Wyatt on the spot, but Wyatt said he would not be arrested right then. The way he said it, it made me think he warnt never gonna let Behan arrest him, ever. He did though, in the end, but at the hearing Judge Spicer said that things happened pretty much out of the Earps' control until they had no choice and that they acted as they had to in defense of their lives and there was no possible charge after all.

So the Earps wassent charged or convicted of anything except mebbe bad judgment, and most folks around town agreed with that, 'cept the Cowboys. Some didn’t like it, of course, and Ike Clanton kept trying to stir up trouble for the Earps, but he never got anywhere with it. Most folks knew better. The ones that kep' agitatin wouldn’t have liked anything, from the very beginning, that didn’t end with all the Earps dead. But the Cowboys was still workin on that.

A couple months later, some of the Cowboys ambushed Virgil in the street at the corner of 5th and Allen, shot him from behind and he almost died. Then in the springtime, some of them shot Morgan in the back, through the back door of Campbell and Hatch’s where he was playing at billiards. He died on the billiard table there and afterwards the Doc said he was shot clear through his back bone.

After that, the fight seemed to go out of Wyatt for awhile – he mourned so for his brother. But that mournfulness turned hot purty quick. When they was takin Morgan back to California to his home to bury him, the Earps was nearly ambushed at the train depot in Tucson with all their women right there.

But Wyatt was watchin out and one of them assassins was shot on the station platform. The shooter kep' on shootin until he was sure the assassin was dead. I think it was Frank Stillwell that was shot there. Wyatt said back then he thought Stillwell was one that was responsible for Morgan's murder. He was probly right -- Pete Spence's wife said 'ol Pete and Stillwell planned how they was goin to shoot some of the Earps; planned it right there in her house.

I think Wyatt was goin to let it go up until that – but then he went right out and kilt all them skunks that he thought was in on his brother’s murder – Curly Bill, Indian Charley, John Ringo and some others. It seemed like for ever' outlaw that got killed for the next ten years, everbody said “Wyatt Earp done it.” About the only ones of 'em that didn't get kilt was Pete Spence and Ike Clanton.

Not too much later on Ike got shot and kilt by a cattle man's officer when he got caught herdin cows that warnt his. Spence probly died of old age, I don't know, I never heard for sure. Maybe he's sittin around somewheres, like me, thinkin of old times and wonderin how we got so useless.

I never saw Wyatt Earp again. He left Arizona, I heard up to Colorado with Doc. The only Earp I ever saw after that was Warren. He came to Benson a few years back and worked 'round there as a express guard for a while. Some folks say he din’t have the same good character his brothers had – was kinda a bully they said -- but I don't know about that. He finally got hisself shot in a bar scrape over to Willcox. But I wouldn't mind seeing any of them other Earps again -- they was honest men who warn't afraid of much and who din't bother anybody unless they was pushed and provoked. Men like that is good to have around. But now Wyatt is gone and I s'pose Virgil is gone too, by now.

That’s how that famous gun fight happened, the way I saw and heard it. None of them people are around any more – after the Earps went away things kindy went to hell for a while, until Texas John got elected sheriff and he cleaned things up his own way. Of course Tombstone purt'near died when the mines filled up with water, so now the county is quiet mostly.

I went back to Mr. Hooker’s place before then, once my laig was good again and worked there (and a couple other places later on) until I got too old to throw steers around much anymore. Hell, I caint even much fix a fence anymore, not that I'd want to. It's hell to git old. Things aren’t the same as they was then – I s'pose in most ways that’s a good thing.


Harley Joe and this story are nothing but fiction.