Mémé and Mimo

As promised yesterday, here is the essential cross-section shot of mémé from Pastelaria Regional Cego:

Sorry for the low-light fuzziness. Again, judgement breaks down under the brunt of great deliciousness. I'll try again soon. Maybe that's my life from here on in: endlessly failing to properly photograph mémé. I could do a lot worse!

Also, two corrections from yesterday's posting:

1. It's called mémé, not bolo mémé.
2. It doesn't use fresh sheep cheese, like the immortal product of Sabino Rodrigues. It's a highly specific cheese called requejão, made from boiling whey (this is the stuff that appears on top). Kind of like a slightly firmer ricotta.

Also: this one wasn't a "10" for me. More of a "9" (again, reference my rating explainer). Was it worse today? Was I in a different mood? Had the novelty worn off? Subjectivity something something?

No. It just wasn't as bright-burning for whatever reason. At this point, I trust myself. I know that sounds like pompous self-indulgence, but you should recognize by now that I'm among the most innately self-suspicious mo-fos who ever walked the planet. It's accordingly taken mountains of evidence to stoke a sense of security re: my taste (in both senses) reliability.

My first intimation was after I'd befriended veteran Long Island food writer Sylvia Carter, who confirmed that all the places I'd childishly whined my parents into bringing me to as a kid were actually really really good, though I'd always assumed my attraction was juvenile caprice. The second was the time I tasted 30 ultra-strong and palate-wrecking barleywines at a single sitting, finding I could effortlessly taste, differentiate, and judge each one clearly, even though, when I tried to get up afterwards, my legs didn't work so good.

Here's the deal with me, on matters of taste and other realms where I've got some juju: I can absolutely be wrong - sometimes hilariously/catastrophically so - but you probably shouldn't bet against me. That's what I tell girlfriends who want to know if I'm SURE the donut place I saw a photo of once, and which we're presently driving 35 miles out of our way to visit, is REALLY WORTH IT.

Perhaps some nuance failed to be brought into full focus, or the marmalade portioning was a nanogram heavy, or whatever. Still great, for sure. But, yup, this defies my whole "reliable '10'!" thesis, groundlessly proposed after a single mémé. Hey, what did I say about not making sense? Expect more of this as I 1. age, and 2. hang around with Portuguese people.

The second unique specialty at Pastelaria Regional Cego is a brother to mémé called mimo. Same crusty pastry, same eggy/candy marmelade dollop, but topped with charmingly unevenly-cut toasted almond slivers. No cheese. And it kind of needs the cheese. But mimo (which means "pamper") is more than worth a try: