After visiting family nearby, my husband Francisco and I are in the habit of stopping in Woodburn. We go to Salvador’s Bakery for churros, the sugared cylinders of fried dough that look like miniature saguaro cactuses. Francisco grew up in the area, but when he was young, downtown’s boarded-up windows were of little interest. As it has developed, his interest has grown, too. We drive down from Portland, compelled by our never-ending appetites—I am a chef, and Francisco is a champion eater.

A first visit to Salvador’s Bakery feels like going to the circus. More mini mega-store than bakery, it houses a grocery, a restaurant, a meat market, and a service center where you can wire money or obtain a Mexican car registration. An ancient tortilla machine sits near a griddle where jalapeños and onions sizzle. Plastic cups stuffed with spears of cucumber, jicama, red papaya, watermelon, cantaloupe, and pineapple line a counter near the front door.

Just beyond the cash registers sits a group of enormous, bubbling kettles. In some, folds of pig skin melt into their own fat, rendering even more fat until only the skin is left. Sheets of these golden chicharrónes, or pork rinds, are stacked delicately on top of one another. Like books in the house of someone who loves to read, chicharrónes at Salvador’s are piled anywhere room can be found.

A large stainless steel bowl of corn masa dough awaits its destiny at the hands of one of the women working the food counter. As the orders come in, she shapes and presses the dough. With a toss, perfectly round tortillas land on the griddle top at her side. Her motions are fluid, light and quick.

At the back of the store sits the meat counter. Using the whole animal may be a newfound commitment for some restaurant chefs, but not for the patrons of Salvador’s. There are pink snouts and ears, jars of pickled skin, dark livers, tripe of various patterns, amber smoked pork loins, and the feet of chickens, pigs, and calves. A sign handwritten in Spanish says that cabezas, or heads, can be ordered. On top of the meat case perch pints of red and green moles, and lard that is still liquid warm.

Amidst the profusion of food in every state, from recently slaughtered to about-to-be-devoured, it’s easy to miss all there is to eat. One Friday, I ordered a huarache, a flat piece of masa the size of a sandal that is fried, slathered with chili and piled with beans, meat, cultured cream, lettuce, and tomato. I lorded my good choice over Francisco, who lunched uncharacteristically on chicken enchiladas–like a gringo, I teased. But after spotting the remains of a whole deep-fried fish one booth over from ours, I realized we hadn’t even noticed the mariscos, or seafood, menu.

Today, we cross the street for lunch, to Mexico Lindo. Francisco orders menudo, the restorative chili-red tripe soup. He squeezes a wedge of lime over the spicy broth, and showers it with Mexican oregano. I watch him slurp up the leaf tripe, which has accordion-like folds. It’s not the kind of tripe with which I’m more familiar, which, like its name, has a honeycomb pattern.

It’s a simple question that comes to me: Why was one kind of tripe used in Francisco’s menudo and not another? The question might be straightforward, but I am pretty sure the answer would only lead to more questions. Was Mexico Lindo’s decision to use leaf tripe based on considerations of texture, economy, or something else? If the inventories of Woodburn’s downtown markets are any indication, this small city’s newest residents must surely prepare and enjoy quite a large number of foods. I want to know—and eat—what they are cooking.

In the meantime, Francisco and I will keep heading down I-5 to Woodburn, searching among its tiendas, carnicerías, and restaurants for new foods to crave. Just don’t tell my in-laws we drove right past their house and straight for the churros.

Kelly Myers is a Portland chef and writer. She writes a regular column for culinate.com.

See Kelly Myers' partial list of downtown Woodburn food businesses here.