by Amy Cotler

Our driver, José Luis, drove us, my husband Tom and me, past Querétaro, the town where my husband spent his teen years. Back then Tom had zoomed out on his dirt bike, just beyond his street, to lay his sleeping bag down, carefully avoiding the cactus, dozing off under the stars. An occasional burro and its owner might pass by in the morning hours, but this was wide open country. Now "out of town" had been gobbled up by this huge city, a manufacturing hub in Mexico, with skyscrapers and the biggest mall in Latin America with the best brands, José Luis told us.

Past the outskirts, José Luis drove us past a mountainous tract sparsely populated with cactus and an occasional bull, small but muscular, in the distance. "They're bred here to be killed in our fights," he said, "but there are fights for americanos where there's no kill at all," he added in a reassuring tone.

And then José Luis told us a driver's story. It started in his youth, when he and his pals decided to walk the 40 miles from San Miguel de Allende, where he lived and were heading, to Querétaro. On their way, he and his band of boys marched through the same countryside that we were driving through.

Suddenly a band of bulls charged toward them. They scrabbled up the nearest mesquite tree to safety. But the bulls surrounded them, waiting. Afraid to climb down, they cowered for five hours in the tree before el patron, the owner of the property, spotted them. He hurried them into a large room, where they expect the police to arrive. But instead, a man appeared carrying a large meal, which tasted even better because it was unexpected. Then el patron told them of his experience as a boy with charging bulls and a mesquite tree in the field, the very same — years before he bought the land, the ranch himself. He drove them home, their bellies full.

I listened as we drove toward San Miguel, imagining the rustic gorditas that the boys had been fed. Warm from the comal, the classic Mexican griddle, made with coarsely ground masa, thick and corny, cut open into pockets. I could taste them, as the boys did, filled with spicy nopales — cooked cactus paddles — potatoes and sausage. And so, my mouth was set when we entered San Miguel.

Tacos al Pastor

We arrived that night and walked past the square, lined with box-cut laurel trees that face a Gothic-style church that looks like a pink wedding cake. It is familiar to us, from years of visits, but different now. We have no roots. For years we'd been talking, planning and saving. Now we are here. Without knowing it, I began heading towards a flavor to ground me, un puesto, a stand.

Think of the shawarma, made with lamb, pressed vertically onto a rotating spit, shaved off lengthwise, then served with flatbread in a yogurt sauce. Now imagine it brought to Mexico by Lebanese immigrants, then appropriated to the local palate — pork, cilantro, salsa. Same, same different.

Don't we all temper our fear of the unknown with the quest for familiar flavors? I did early on with late salami sandwiches, gobbled down in the kitchen after a run down the dark halls of my childhood. And later during my hunt for the people's rice dishes in Asia. They did. And now tacos al pastor, like my beloved Wellfleet oysters, have come to taste of the place where they were born.

We walked past the square toward a cluster of people. And part of my brain sparks, My husband is a recent vegetarian, and so I look his way as we continue. He smiled, knowing me too well; my palate stands alone on this journey, although I do not. Everyone's jostling, wanting theirs. Three men are working the stand, one slicing down long strips of layered pork filling. They look hot, chopping the sliced meat, facing the hungry crowd. And so, I jostle forward— Dos con todo por favor — which I don't yell loud enough, and so I'm passed over in the crowd. A young Mexican woman waiting with me encourages me to scream out my order.

I do and my palm-sized tacos finally arrive. Tortillas topped with just a bit of smoky pork, an orange sauce of chilies and a fine mix of chopped onions and cilantro, crowned with a slice from the warm pineapple that sits above the meat.

One has to christen Mexico with a taco. Right?

Discado

A week later we are asked to join a birthday party out of town. Discado, a Northern Mexican dish, is traditionally cooked in a tractor disk, with ingredients brought in by farmers, who cook it over an open flame with a disk on top. The disk works like a wok with strong, direct heat and frequent stirring. Ours was a concoction of onions cooked in bacon, followed by pork and beef, peppers and tomatoes, lightly spiced, finished with lots of cheese — all thrown into tortillas. In a mix of hand gestures and Spanglish, I'm told that preparing discado communally gives it its staying power, enhancing its flavor.

After introductions I join our host's friends and family, all of us, chopping together round a long table. We peel grilled poblano chilies and chop ripe tomatoes. Mellow kids and dogs play underfoot to music ranging from ranchero to American blues, while the sun sets over the lake.

Suddenly we're ready. The table is jammed with oodles of sides, from the expected tomatillo salsa and guacamole to garlicky grilled garden vegetables, charred and chopped, grapefruit sections wrapped in basil leaves, and gingered figs from the tree out back, flambéed in tequila and caramelized in sugar. Spanish with a touch English and French engulfs us as we eat. Wood smoke fills the air as the high desert night grows dark and cool. The evening passes.

When it's late we say our goodbyes. Not a thank-you-very-much, but one by one, we receive and give a kiss on the cheek. And from three-year-old Rosa, a sleepy shake from her warm hand.

**************

Amy Cotler worked as a culinary professional before turning to creative writing. Her short pieces have appeared in literary magazines, including: Hinterland Magazine, Prometheus Rising, Guesthouse Literary Journal, Hinterland Magazine, The Hamilton Stone Review, Drunk Monkeys, Women Who Roar, Potato Soup Journal, Still Point Arts Quarterly, Bright Flash Literary Review and The Rambling Epicure. She was a leader in the farm-to-table movement, and lectured widely on the subject. Cotler also taught cooking and food writing at Culinary Institute of America and The Institute for Culinary Education, hosted food forums for The New York Times, authored five cookbooks, and created of more than 1000 recipes for Joy of Cooking and other publications. Cotler lives in San Miguel de Allende, with her husband, an artist, and their dog, Remy.

www.amycotler.com - website
www.amycotler.com/offerings - writing samples

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