Chilaquiles

          My food, the viejo said to me, isn’t for eating, it’s for living. I met him many years ago, in Paraíso, right by the sea in Tabasco not far from here-

          Huh? Did I already tell you this story? Oh, come on mi hijo, why don’t you humor your abuelito for today, alright? It’s not a long story, but I like it very much. Just listen to this viejito and I’ll let you go back to whatever you were doing, está bien? 

          Now how long ago was this… I think thirty years ago? Your bisabuelita had passed away a couple of months before. Yes, your bisabuela Lupita—her picture is on my nightstand. You never met her, but oh, you would’ve loved her madly! 

          It was April when she passed away, and by that point I was tired of everything. I lived in a tiny apartment up by Aragón in the north of Mexico City. The nights were cold, the days were hot, the air was dry—it just became too much to bear. I was tired of the noise, the traffic, my work—the whole city, honestly. Call me a southern hick all you want, but the chilangos had me up to here! 

          When the semester let out in June right after my mom’s passing, I just had to leave. I didn’t have a lot of money, and I didn’t even have a place to go. I didn’t want to go back to Villahermosa; the empty house was all that was left, and the idea of entering it caused my stomach to churn. I looked over my contacts, made a couple of calls, and found that a friend’s uncle, Don Francisco, in Paraíso had an empty room he was willing to let me sleep in if I helped out in the small ferretería he owned. I stuffed my backpack with as many clothes as I could fit, and found myself on a bus to Tabasco. God, I must’ve had a good fifty pesos in my pocket and a packet of Chokis for the road. 

          I got to Paraíso at 6:00 A.M. on a Sunday. The late June sun was peeking over the Parroquia San Marcos as I walked over to Don Francisco’s place on Santos Degollados, one street over from the city center. The muted, washed out colors of the houses—pale blues and pinks—were covered by giant tarps. Coalición Por el Bien de Todos was written in giant letters on the tarps, superimposed on the yellow, red, and orange backgrounds of party logos. 

          I knocked on Don Francisco’s door. Graffiti of Lázaro Cárdenas and Emiliano Zapata covered the house’s garage door. Feet rattled down a metal staircase and soon enough Don Francisco was there. His graying hair laid neat over his head while his brown eyes looked at my hands, then my shirt, then at me. 

          “What does that shirt say, chamaco?”

          “Oh, uh…” I looked down at my shirt wearily, “um, it’s an American band.”

          “And the name? I can’t read gringonese.” 

          “Rage Against the Machine,” I said, “I guess it’d be, uh, ‘furia contra la maquina’?” 

          “Hm. Alright, come on, get inside. You get to rest for today—I’ll show you the ropes tomorrow morning. Your room is directly on the opposite side of the stairs.” He took out his wallet with a slightly shaky hand and pulled out a couple bills, adding up to 70 pesos. “Walk around and get yourself some breakfast.”

          I put my hand out sheepishly. “No please, I couldn’t-”

          Don Francisco clicked his tongue at me. “Ay chamaco, take the fucking money, I just want you out of the house. And get yourself something filling. You’re too skinny. Some bistec or mondongo. A friend of mine sells pozol on Miguel Hidalgo right across from the central square. You like pozol, hijo?”

          “Uh, I’ve only ever tried it once.”

          “Ah, but pozol from Villahermosa. Nobody does pozol like the municipios, hijo. Don’t you forget it!” He laughed heartily. “How’s Villa doing these days?”

          “Oh, I came from Mexico City, and I haven’t been to Villahermosa in a little while.”

          Don Francisco rolled his eyes and sighed. “Ay ay, no no no. We’re going from bad to worse, hijo. Only good thing about that city is that someone from Tabasco runs it.”

          He shoved the money into my chest and waved me away, going towards the staircase. “Get settled in. If you need anything I’ll be in my room.” 

          I stuffed the bills into my pocket and looked around the small living room. It was quaint, with a round wooden table on top of a blue carpet. A radio let out the sound of Café Tacvba’s “Eres”. As the song ended, another grainy voice read out the morning news as I climbed up the stairs. 

As the republic prepares for the presidential elections on July 2nd, incumbent National Action Party candidate Felipe Calderón has openly-

          The voice on the radio faded away as I stepped into my room. The bed, though small, seemed comfortable enough. A window let me gaze out towards the street below, where people began to wake up for a typically slow Sunday. I laid down and rested my head on a pillow as the atmosphere grew louder. In the corner of the room, there was a small wooden desk and an even smaller, mostly empty, bookshelf. The wall next to the bed still retained the discoloration marks of old tape along with the black corner of a ripped out poster. The desk and the bedside table were dusty.

          I stood up with a sudden surge of energy and hopped down the stairs. By then, it was 7:30 in the morning.The weather, though definitely hotter than Mexico City, was mild with the ocean breeze from the Gulf of Mexico. I walked up through Santos Degollados and turned right on Ignacio Comonfort towards the central square. Bells clanged as an older man rode a bicycle with a large barrel behind it. 

          “Pozol! Cold pozol for the heat!” The man shouted. I waved him down and ran over with my wallet. 

          “How much for a small cup?”

          “15 pesitos, jovén. You’re not from here, right? I haven’t seen you before.”

          I fumbled with my wallet trying to get out a 20 peso bill. “Yes, I’m not from here. I’m here for… a vacation, let's say. I’m helping at a ferretería in exchange for a room to sleep in.”

          I handed him the 20 peso bill and he began filling a styrofoam cup with ice and cacao pozol. The pozolero laughed. “Doesn’t sound like much of a vacation to me! Who are you staying with?”

          “Don Francisco.”

          “Hiiiiijole, with Francisco? How is he?”

          “Uh, he seemed fine. A little grumpy, I guess?”

          “Oh, he’s always like that. He’s been worse since his son passed away.”

          He handed me the pozol. I hesitated to respond. “How… How long has it been?”

          “Oh, I’d say about two years. Worst part of it was that Francisco couldn’t even see him. He died in Mexico City, while he was in university. Tragic, tragic car accident.” The man seemed to look towards the general direction of Don Francisco’s house. “Well, tell him I said ‘hi’ when you go back, alright kid?”

          “Of course.” Right as I was about to turn around, I remembered something and whipped back around. “Do you know anywhere that’s good for breakfast?” 

          The pozolero scanned the streets, smiled, and pointed to the left along Gregorio Méndez. “Walk along Méndez until you reach the intersection with Manuel Doblado. There should be a little red house to the left just before the intersection with a bunch of potted plants.”

          “What’s the name of the place?”

          “It doesn’t have a name. You’ll recognize it, I’m sure of it.” 

          I nodded my head apprehensively and wished him a good day. As I walked past the central square and into Gregorio Méndez, I took a sip of the delightfully cold pozol. I can’t tell you if it was any better or worse than the pozol I had in Villahermosa, but it was good. 

          Like the pozolero told me, the red house was instantly recognizable, both by look and by smell. Large fragrant pots of cilantro, parsley, and epazote adorned the street-facing wall. Sandstone-colored engravings ran along the middle of the wall in the style of old Chontal art. Many people began to filter into the house from the street. An older man came out the front door to pick some cilantro. As he leaned back up, he locked eyes with me. We stared at each other for a few seconds until he gestured with his hands.

          “Are you gonna come inside or what?” The old man said with the thickest Tabasco accent I’d ever heard.

          I nodded and quickly crossed the street. Inside, the living room seemed much more spacious than the outside let on. Three long but narrow tables that sat between 10 and 15 people each were stationed along the room, with a small open-style kitchen to the right.

          “Ey viejo!” A young woman said as she walked into the house, “Here are the tomatoes I told you about before. As ripe as they can be!” She handed the old man a large paper bag.

          A younger boy received the bag as the old man and the young woman hugged. “Martita, thank you so much. I’ll make the guisado you wanted for this afternoon.”     

          I sat down on the table closest to the kitchen as more people with bags of fruit, vegetables, meat, and fish entered the house. Before long, the old man turned to the tables and shouted.

          “Alright, breakfast is done!” He said. Two large metal containers were set up along the edge of the counter, with a couple of smaller bowls of sour cream, queso sopero, and diced onions and cilantro. “Come on up and grab a plate. Tell Toñito if you want any fried eggs and he’ll whip them up.”

          I stood up carefully along with everyone else and grabbed a plate from the pile in the corner—a mix of standard porcelain, reddish clay, and blue talavera. I opened the lid on the first container and was greeted with the most wonderful fragrance I’ve ever been graced with. Instantly, my nostrils were filled with garlic, cilantro, tomato, chiles, and epazote. 

          Mi hijo, I swear to God those were the best chilaquiles I’d ever had. To this day, even after asking that viejo for his recipe everybody for those three months I was in Paraíso, I haven’t been able to replicate them. 

          I got three big spoonfuls of chilaquiles before doubling back and grabbing another. I spooned on cream, cheese, onions, and cilantro before going to Toñito. He got me two sunny side-up eggs on top of the chilaquiles, and I sat back down to eat. The old man walked along and sat across from me as everyone else sat down.

          “Chamaco,” he said, “you’re not from around here, are you?”

          I swallowed my forkful of chilaquiles and responded. “N-No, sir. I’m from Villahermosa, but I’m living in Mexico City for university.” 

          “Hm,” he said, “wherever you went to university you're still a choco like everyone else here. What brings you to Paraíso?”

          “Um… I’m on vacation, I guess. I’m staying with Don Francisco.”

          “Don Francisco, huh?” The old man stood up, grabbed himself a plate with chilaquiles, and sat down with me again. “Do you mind if I tell you a story?” 

          “Sure.” I responded.

          The old man took a deep breath and began. “Six years ago, there was another boy that came to help out with the cooking everyday after school. He wasn’t very good at cooking, but he did help with cutting, dicing, and all the other odd jobs around the kitchen. He didn’t come around here everyday just because he was a good samaritan (despite the fact that he was), and the main reason we suspected was a pretty girl that came around here that also went to his school. She had long, black hair and shiny brown skin, and my God was that boy in love. He would try to build up the courage to go talk to her every day, but she always left before he had the chance. 

          A year in, however, he was finally able to talk to her, and they hit it off. Every day I would have to drag the boy back to his post so he didn’t spend the whole day talking to her. But we were all happy for them. 

          Time passed and the two were about to graduate. The boy wanted to stay, the girl wanted to leave for the capital. They bickered for a little while, and finally they decided to go their separate ways. For a whole other year after she left the boy was inconsolable. He didn’t cry, but he did slowly stop smiling as brilliantly as he did when she was with him.

          One late afternoon, three years ago to be exact, the girl came back on a day the boy didn’t come to help out. We had to distract her while Toñito went running to his house in Santos Degollados to get him. When he arrived they embraced, and he told her he couldn’t bear being without her, and that he had applied for a university in the capital. A couple months later, and they both left this town behind, towards life together in the big city. I’d love to say they lived happily ever after, but you know how the story ends. And what you’re eating right now, that was his favorite meal. Chilaquiles.” 

          The old man got up and took out a tupperware to fill with chilaquiles. “Bring some of this to Don Francisco, tell him it’s from the viejo in the red house, and that we miss him. That boy always loved my chilaquiles. He always said that my food wasn’t for eating, it was for living. I try to live by that now.”

          He handed me the tupperware and sent me off. A couple minutes later, I was back at Don Francisco’s house. The radio was still going off in the living room. The electoral alliance Coalition for the Good of All headed by the Party of the Democratic Revolution candidate Andrés Manuel Lopéz Obrador has- I shut the radio off and walked up the metal stairs. I knocked on Don Francisco’s door and he let me in with a grunt.

          “The old man at the red house told me to give you this,” I said as I handed him the tupperware, “he told me they miss you.”

          He took the container out of my hands and stared at it. He grabbed a fork and got himself a nice bite of tortilla, sauce, cream, and cheese. As soon as his mouth closed over it his eyes began to cloud, and by the third bite he started to weep. I wept alongside him. We weren’t crying for the same reasons, or for the same cause, or for the person, but we wept together despite it. I told him why I had come after we wiped our eyes.

          “Chamaco,” he told me, “why don’t I treat you to breakfast tomorrow?”

 

          And that’s it! How did you like it, hijo? Too long? Aww, cut your abuelito some slack. It’s late already. I’ll head to bed.

          Good night, mi hijo.

          I love you.