It doesn't often happen that a highly anticipated event lives up to one's expectations, does it? There's so often disappointment. In the case of one highly anticipated meal in Flagstaff, Arizona, though, I was thrilled to discover that sometimes the experience actually exceeds expectations, and in a big way.
Driving to Utah last week, we made it into New Mexico and then the Grand Canyon State, skirting the Navajo Nation Indian Reservation and cutting through the heart of the Painted Desert on our way to Flagstaff. Keith, our trip planner, had kindly incorporated that city onto our route because I'd been advised that
MartAnne's Burrito Palace (a.k.a. MartAnne's Cafe) serves up possibly the world's best chilaquiles,
a dish I've written about on this blog in the past. Poring over the
reviews on Yelp and elsewhere, I found mostly raves, but there were also caveats: "What are their hours? I went at
X time, when they were supposed to be open, and the place was dark!" "Be sure to get there at
X time, otherwise the place will be full and you'll have to wait for an hour!" "The food was great, but once we were seated, we waited SO LONG for it." "I don't know what all the hype for this place is about!"
Thus, as we left the TraveLodge and headed for San Francisco Street in historic old-town Flagstaff on a recent weekday morning, I was prepared for a letdown, or at least for a hassle. There
was a bit of a hassle, but it was of our own making.
We arrived at MartAnne's at what we thought was 10 minutes to 9:00, and the door was locked. No hours were posted, but my understanding was that they opened at 8:00 or 8:30. Confusion bordering on emotional devastation ensued. Were they closed on Mondays? Did they just not feel like opening on this particular day? Had we come all this way only to miss out? We walked around a bit, dejectedly went into another breakfast joint, and noticed that the clock indicated it was 10 minutes to
8, not 9 (we didn't realize that Flagstaff is on Mountain Standard and not Mountain Daylight time). We practically threw down our menus, hightailed it back to MartAnne's, and camped on the doorstep, as I was determined to beat the crowds I'd read so much about. At 8 o'clock sharp, a young woman opened the door. We walked right into the small cafe, which has only nine tables, and took seats at a primo spot in the back where we could watch all the action. There was no crowd at first—we had the place all to ourselves for a while.
We were definitely Midwestern squares in this tiny enclave of Southwestern hipness—we stuck out like steaks on a vegetarian plate. I wanted to trade in my CVS sunglasses for Ray-Bans and my Ann Taylor Loft T-shirt and shorts for . . . some fittingly Bohemian attire. But no matter; embracing our squareness, we won everybody over with our goofy Midwestern charm ("We drove all the way from Illinois just to eat here!").
The cafe's name is apparently a mash-up of the names of the aging hipster couple (and I say that lovingly) who own the place: The
Mart, I'm assuming, is an abbreviation for Martin, the very friendly fellow who cleared our dishes, and the
Anne is for, well, Anne, the cook extraordinaire—a tall, tattoo'ed diva with streaky hair who, wearing sunglasses in the darkish kitchen, in an apparently hung-over state, was whipping up some of the best food that I have ever eaten.
I ordered Fratelli-quiles—
chilaquiles with a scoop of chile verde on top. The chile verde was luscious, with chunks of tender and deeply flavorful pork in a gorgeous, garlicky green sauce containing pieces of green chiles. The pork concoction sat atop a mess of fried corn tortilla pieces and eggs bathed in more salsa verde. Homemade pinto beans, perfectly crispy and tender hashed browns, tasty rice, and a flour tortilla (which I'll swear was homemade) rounded out the enormous meal.

Now, I'm aware that the photo makes it look as if the food is obliterated by cheese, but I promise you, it wasn't. I hate cheese obliteration, and that wasn't happening here. The cheese topping was just right; not a thick blanket but a light layer that perfectly complemented the rest of the food. In any case, no photo can do justice to our meals (Keith had a gigantic breakfast burrito that was just as mind-bogglingly good as my chilaquiles, and it came with the same accompaniments). Prices—about $7 for the burrito plate and $8 for the chilaquiles—were very fair for the stupendous array of homemade food we got. And, clearly, the breakfast meals are large enough to share, so we could've gotten out of there for about $4.00 each if we'd split one.

Appreciating the works of a local artist on the walls, the coziness, the music (which ran the gamut from Gladys Knight to Jefferson Airplane to Billie Holiday), and of course THE FOOD, I never wanted to leave that hole in the wall. I found myself spinning fantasies featuring us living in an old Airstream off a dirt road in Flagstaff and eating at MartAnne's every morning.
It was not to be, but I was in such a chilaquiles-induced euphoria after leaving that even when, on the road to the Grand Canyon, a rock bounced up and made the second hairline crack of the trip in our car's windshield, I couldn't have cared less.
A thousand thanks to Aariq, who left a comment on
one of my chilaquiles posts recommending MartAnne's. To think that we might never have known about the place otherwise! If you're ever in the area of Flagstaff, please do whatever it takes to stop in and eat.
MartAnne's Burrito Palace
10 North San Francisco Street
Flagstaff, AZ
According to a comment on
their Facebook page, the cafe doesn't have a phone, which is somehow not surprising. Only cash is accepted, and hours seem to be variable but I believe the idea is 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. daily. Expect crowds on the weekends.
Labels: restaurants, road trip