Tag Archives: cuisine

Street food

Yum, yum, yum!

A FREQUENT warning to people visiting Mexico is not to eat food from street vendors, advice that I’ve ignored for 17 years, and I haven’t died yet.

This afternoon, sitting at a sidewalk table on the main plaza with a café Americano negro, I hankered for something solid. I narrowed the options down to two.

One was a shrimp cocktail from a street vendor on the small plaza a couple of blocks away. Two was whole-wheat fig bread from another vendor quite near the shrimp stand.

I chose Option Two, the fig bread. That’s it in the photo. I brought it back to my coffee shop sidewalk table and cut into it with my pocketknife, the one you see there.

The fig bread is a great example of an amazing phenomenon you often encounter down here. Persistent food heat. I purchased the fig bread out of a basket. The bread had a cloth covering both it and its compañeros, all awaiting diners.

The vendor likely had left home, or wherever the bread was baked, a couple of hours previously, but the bread was still quite warm as she tucked it into a plastic bag.

I walked the two blocks back to the coffee shop, sat, opened the bag, and the bread was warm still. I cut it in half for the photo. Then I ate a good deal. Still warm.

How do they do that?

After slipping what remained of the bread back into its bag, I was surprised by the sudden appearance of the inimitable Jennifer Rose who sat with me a spell.

I offered her some fig bread, but she declined.

Engagement dinner


SUNDAY SAW us in the nearby capital city on a shopping spree. When we returned in late afternoon, and after putting the purchases away, we took a walk down to the plaza and sat on a steel bench a spell. I took this photo.

Last night we missed the presidential debate because, yet again, we were in the capital city. The purpose this time was to attend the engagement dinner of a niece.

She was already “showing,” as they say.

The event was in a rented party salon, a popular approach here when fiestas are too big for someone’s home. The salon was in a shady part of town, and we played hell finding it.

The father of the groom looked in a bad mood, and the father of the bride did not attend due to being dead.

The meal consisted of cream-and-cheese-sopped pasta and chicken parts swimming in some sort of salsa.

The music blared. The floor was old concrete, and the walls looked like they were last painted in 1944. Faded crepe paper hung limply along one wall to provide a festive air.

We stayed just two hours, drove back up the mountaintop, fixed salads for supper, and that was it for the day.

From what I read, the presidential debate was a wash.