If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, we have at least to consider the possibility that we have a small aquatic bird of the family anatidae on our hands.

— Douglas Adams



Graz, Austria — The other day my wife came home from the grocer with two long green peppers that looked temptingly like New Mexican green chiles.

I was in the middle of prepping a risotto made with Eierschwammerln, a local variety of chanterelle mushrooms we had foraged in the woods the day before. But all thoughts of those apricot-scented mushrooms vanished the minute I saw the familiar green, scimitar-shaped peppers — old wrinkled skins and all.

Just the week before I had been feeling particularly chile-deprived and sorry for myself.

September was difficult for this expatriate. I missed the smell of roasting chile in the cool morning air, the parking spaces lost to the gas-powered chile roasters in the Smith's and Albertsons parking lots, the stacks of huge burlap sacks of Hatch chile crowding the produce aisles and, of course, the ridiculously low price of $13 for what amounts to a half-year's supply of New Mexico's heart and soul.

"Who cares about Austria's fresh chestnuts, plump chanterelles or prime venison?" I whined to my patient wife. "I want something spicy; something to make my nose run, my eyes tear and the top of my bald head shine with sweat.

"I want chile!"

Kind soul that she is, my wife discovered those two sorry specimens at a local discount grocer and bought them for 39 cents. Not knowing if the peppers were even spicy, she brought them home — more, I think, to placate her grumbling husband than out of any hope they could substitute for the real thing.

"Try them," she said.

I immediately flipped on the broiler and pushed the risotto ingredients aside. I placed the chiles on the top rack and waited. Ten minutes later I pulled the charred peppers out of the oven, peeled them and took a tentative bite.

I was astonished. They were spicy — and they did taste more like green chile than bell peppers. Praise be to Big Jim, wherever he is, I crowed.

"Now," I said to my wife, "let's go down to the store and buy them out. We'll roast 'em and freeze 'em, just like home."

"But they were the last two they had," she said.

"Arrrrrrrrrrghhhhh!" I cried.

"We'll go to the farmers market tomorrow and see what they have," she said. "I'm sure we can find some chiles."

So I suffered through what turned out to be a delicious risotto and began planning the next day's Austro-New Mexican chile dinner.

Dinner in a parallel universe

For those geographically challenged, Austria borders Hungary, home to the world's finest paprika. Paprika is made by grinding dried red peppers, capsicum annum, to be exact. That's right: chiles. We live right next door to the chile capital of Europe.

Although Hungary produces mainly sweet red peppers, there are plenty of spicy varieties grown there as well. Hot paprika — a darker, muddier brown than the sweet variety — is made from some of those varieties and is commonly used for the more potent versions of goulash.

Our farmers' market was rife with long green and yellow peppers, some of which the farmers said were spicy, some not. No one seemed to know the Latin or common name of their peppers. They were just Pfefferoni or Paprikas. And how many did you want, anyway?

So we picked up a bagful of different varieties to try, along with a chunk of butter cheese (a stronger-flavored, fattier version of our Monterey Jack), a pack of flour tortillas made in the Netherlands and a half kilo of small brown beans that looked quite a bit like pinto beans. Again, the farmer could not put a specific name to the brown beans we chose — they were just Bohnen, or beans.

Dried beans are quite popular in Austria. The most popular is what is called a scarlet runner bean in the States. Here it is called simply KaeferBohnen, and is used mainly in salads.

Once home, I prepared a pot of green chile, garlicky beans and chicken burritos with a garnish of chopped lettuce, tomatoes and sour cream.

So, how was the meal? Well, I don't think it would have fooled Georgia Maryol (former owner of Tomasita's).

Everything tasted just the slightest bit off, as if we were eating this meal in an alternate universe or in one of those "mystery spots" found off interstates all over the West.

I finally understood why my Italian friends say that Italian food in the States, which can be good, doesn't taste like real Italian food. There is something about traditional cuisine that is so rooted to a place that it just can't be translated.

The chiles grown here in Styria don't benefit from the same sunlight, water and soil composition as do those grown in Hatch.

Austrian flour is different, finer and softer than U.S. flour, and the beans here ... well, let me just say that the beans here, no matter what they look like, don't really taste like pintos.

To paraphrase Douglas Adams: If it looks like an enchilada, and smells like an enchilada, it doesn't necessarily mean they are going to serve it at Tomasita's.

My dinner companions, who had eaten chile many times in Santa Fe but had never lived there for any length of time, thought the meal was great. And I enjoyed it for what it was — wonderfully spicy and satisfying — and ignored it for what it wasn't — home.

Christopher Kolon can be reached at chrisk5555@hotmail.com.