Tex-Mex Quiche — The Saturday That Was Just for Me

Early May. The restaurant's second anniversary is approaching — May 22, 2027. Lily and James are planning the same kind of staff-and-family celebration we did last year, but with one addition: a small private cookbook preview event for fifty close friends and food professionals. The advance copies will be on display. The preview will function as an early book launch, ten months before the official April 2028 release. Vy is flying in for it. Emiko is coming to take photographs. The publisher will use the photographs and the early review buzz to seed publicity.

I helped Lily plan the menu for the preview event. Twenty-six dishes again, but with a different curatorial approach this year — every dish in the cookbook represented, with a placard explaining its origin. The first dish placard: "Mai's pho. The four-decade conversation with the dead." Vy laughed when she saw it. She said, "Bobby, you have a way." I said, "I have a Mai." She said, "Same thing." Same thing.

Saturday I made a brisket alone — just for me, not for any event, not for the family, not for Mai (she said she'd eat the leftovers). Just me, the smoker, the meat, the post oak, the time. Fourteen-hour cook. The bark deep. The smoke ring perfect. I sliced the brisket at 8 PM and ate three slices standing at the kitchen counter and put the rest in the fridge. Smokey watched. Smokey accepted his trim. The brisket I make for myself is still the same brisket I have been making for thirty years. The book has not changed it. The recipe is in print but the cook is still my cook.

Bobby’s parents came over from Vietnam in 1981 as the small boat-people-refugees. The small mother (Bich) lives in the small adjacent neighborhood. The small father (Hung) passed in 2020 from COVID. The small mother-visits are the small Sunday-afternoon-rhythm. The small pho-and-com-and-banh-mi heritage continues through the small mother-cooking-with-Bobby Sunday afternoons.

The small Houston Restaurant Supply sales-job continues to be the small post-shrimp-boat career. The small fifteen-years-on-the-Galveston-Bay shrimp-boat had ended in 2018 when the small back went out and the small bending-and-hauling work became the small impossibility. The small restaurant-supply role is the small forty-hour-week-with-benefits the small post-shrimping life rests on.

The small Vietnamese-American community in Houston is the small social-spine. The small Bellaire-area is the small Little Saigon district. The small Hong Kong City Mall is the small Saturday-grocery-trip destination. The small Vietnamese church (Our Lady of Lavang) is the small Sunday-worship. The small community is the small refugee-and-immigrant-descended network that has been Bobby’s small lifelong-place.

The small Houston Restaurant Supply sales-job continues to be the small post-shrimp-boat career. The small fifteen-years-on-the-Galveston-Bay shrimp-boat had ended in 2018 when the small back went out and the small bending-and-hauling work became the small impossibility. The small restaurant-supply role is the small forty-hour-week-with-benefits the small post-shrimping life rests on.

The three kids are now adults. Tyler is the small oldest, Emma is the small middle, Lily is the small youngest. The small divorce in 2015 (after Bobby’s affair) had been the small marriage-end. The small kids have been the small slow-rebuild of the small father-trust. The small Linh (Bobby’s older-sister, the small pediatrician in Houston) has been the small adult-presence the small kids look to.

The small Vietnamese-American community in Houston is the small social-spine. The small Bellaire-area is the small Little Saigon district. The small Hong Kong City Mall is the small Saturday-grocery-trip destination. The small Vietnamese church (Our Lady of Lavang) is the small Sunday-worship. The small community is the small refugee-and-immigrant-descended network that has been Bobby’s small lifelong-place.

The small backyard grill is the small Houston-cooking-engine. The small Vietnamese-grilled-pork (thit nuong), the small grilled-shrimp (the small irony of the small ex-shrimper still grilling shrimp), the small bo nuong (grilled-beef), the small ga nuong (grilled-chicken). The small charcoal-grill in the small backyard of the small Bellaire-bungalow runs almost every weekend.

Bobby’s parents came over from Vietnam in 1981 as the small boat-people-refugees. The small mother (Bich) lives in the small adjacent neighborhood. The small father (Hung) passed in 2020 from COVID. The small mother-visits are the small Sunday-afternoon-rhythm. The small pho-and-com-and-banh-mi heritage continues through the small mother-cooking-with-Bobby Sunday afternoons.

The small Houston-summer-heat-and-humidity is the small weather-reality. The small grill outdoors at five-AM-on-the-weekend trick is the small same trick the small Phoenix-firefighter Marcus uses but for different climate-reasons. The small Texas-Gulf-coast humidity is the small constant. The small Vietnamese-summer-cooking traditions are the small adaptation.

The brisket was the big cook — fourteen hours, post oak, bark I’ve been chasing for thirty years — but the Saturday mornings before the smoker goes on belong to something smaller and faster, something I can put together before the neighborhood wakes up. This Tex-Mex Quiche is that cook. It’s Houston on a plate: chorizo heat, green chile bite, enough eggs and cheese to hold you through an afternoon of tending fire. I’ve been making some version of it since my Restaurant Supply days first put me in the orbit of every kitchen in this city. Same as the brisket — the recipe is written down now, but the cook is still my cook.

Tex-Mex Quiche

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 5 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

• 1 unbaked 9-inch deep-dish pie crust
• 1/2 lb ground chorizo
• 1/2 cup diced white onion
• 1/2 cup diced red bell pepper
• 1 can (4 oz) diced green chiles, drained
• 1 fresh jalapeño, seeded and minced
• 6 large eggs
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1/2 cup whole milk
• 1 tsp ground cumin
• 1/2 tsp chili powder
• 1/2 tsp garlic powder
• 1/2 tsp kosher salt
• 1/4 tsp black pepper
• 1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese, divided
• 1/2 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
• Salsa and sour cream, for serving

Instructions

1. Preheat and par-bake. Heat oven to 375°F. Fit the pie crust into a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate, crimp the edges, and line with parchment and pie weights. Bake 10 minutes, remove weights, and bake 3 minutes more. Set aside.
2. Cook the filling. In a skillet over medium-high heat, cook chorizo, breaking it apart, until browned, about 5 minutes. Add onion, bell pepper, and jalapeño and cook until softened, 3–4 minutes. Stir in green chiles. Drain excess fat and let cool slightly.
3. Whisk the custard. In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, heavy cream, milk, cumin, chili powder, garlic powder, salt, and black pepper until fully combined and slightly frothy.
4. Layer the quiche. Scatter half the Monterey Jack cheese across the bottom of the par-baked crust. Spoon the chorizo-vegetable mixture evenly over the cheese. Pour the egg custard over the top, allowing it to settle between the filling.
5. Top with cheese. Sprinkle the remaining Monterey Jack and all of the cheddar evenly over the surface.
6. Bake. Place the quiche on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake at 375°F for 38–45 minutes, until the center is just set with a slight jiggle and the top is golden. If the crust edges brown too quickly, tent with foil.
7. Rest and slice. Let the quiche rest on a wire rack for at least 10 minutes before slicing. Serve warm or at room temperature with salsa and sour cream alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 430 | Protein: 17g | Fat: 32g | Carbs: 19g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 640mg