The Old Prospector rode his mule into El Paso Saturday and parked it at a water trough. Then he parked himself in a beer trough next door and proceeded to order a chelada from Rosa. Rosa had worked at her cantina for years, slowly building up a clientele of outlaws, scofflaws and the Law, but left for a better gig after that darn song came out.
What the Old Prospector ordered was a chelada — not a michelada, not a Clamada, not a michelada rosa, or any other kind of nada chelada. It consisted of a Negro Modela, the juice of two key limes, and salt on the rim of a glass imported, for no special reason, from Spain. It was simple and the Prospector liked his mixed-beer drinks simple, just like his mule. Just like his thoughts, for that matter. He couldn’t spell Worcestershire if he’d been born and raised there.
As the Prospector sat eyeing the goings-on that were going on down Santa Fe Street, he spied the evil Felina, carrying a case of beer. He squinted his good eye, certain that she was up to no good. Sure enough, he saw her enter the Camino Real Hotel, the most magnificent temporary abode this side of the Franklin Mountains, as well as the other side of the Franklin Mountians.
His curiosity piqued, the Prospector wandered out of New Rosa’s to the Camino Real. He made his way past Nuevo Yuppistas yakking on cell phones, past Chiquitas showing off their donuts, and stepped sideways to avoid a tattooed newlywed couple moving from a white Hummersine towards marital bliss and a ninety-year mortgage on their Fear Eastside McMansion. Finding the bar easily enough, the Prospector saw Felina drop the case with the bartender. He recoiled in horror. Big Brew was back in town, and Felina was its henchwoman. She’d been carrying a case of “Chill” beer, a Miller brand that does what lazy people don’t want to do: makes a sort of chelada ready-mixed, for the taste-bud-constrained Gringo on the go.
Gathering himself, the Prospector made his way back to Nuevo Rosa’s, and ordered another simple, old-fashioned chelada. Times were moving too fast these days. The next thing you know, they’d be building three-story buildings downtown. After a time, the Prospector got his mule and headed back into the hills. The sun was going down along the western mesa past the Rio Bravo in New Mexico, and temperatures would shortly plummet into the low 90s. The mule didn’t take to cold weather, and the Prospector was glad to be going back to his home.
—–
The Adventurous Eater lays out the basic distinction between a chelada and a michelada. Her recipes for each are simple and effective. I’d go for one whole key lime, or one-and-a-half, as that’s the kind of lime that’s so plentiful and cheap on the Border.
Hedonia prefers the Worcestershire Sauce addition in a michelada, and links to some other -/chelada blog posts.
Beer (& More) in Food provides a history of the michelada and notes the arrival of big breweries to this tasty drink. Sigh. “Superpremium light beer,” indeed.
Appelation Beer writes that an agency for Corona is responding to the Miller “Chill” (chelada) product with recipes for three variants. I like the coarse salt idea, but am not sure whether my large crystals of gray Spanish sea salt are appropriate.
Chow goes for the Worcestershire sauce in a michelada, but the prep time of five minutes is too long, unless Chow is nursing a hangover. One of the commenters writes of substituting grapefruit juice for lime juice. That could work, especially since this recipe calls for 1/4 cup (!) of lime juice.
Finally, On the House lets us know of his enjoyment of -/chelada style brews and informs us of something there’s little likelihood of seeing on the border: Budweiser’s Clamatolada, I guess you’d call it.
