A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [108]
Mezcal was served like tequila, in shot glasses, accompanied by chasers of sangrita, a spicy tomato juice concoction. With the de rigueur wedge of lime came a mix of salt and dried, powdered, chili-roasted maguey worms – an unexpectedly delicious accompaniment. Martin and I sat in the café, nibbling on tortas (sandwiches) of fresh cheese and ham, drinking beer and mezcal, a mariachi band strolling from table to table. Behind us, a man in his fifties, with a face scarred by a youthful bout with smallpox and the fists and brows of a former pugilist, sat alone at his table, drinking Modelo Negro, his straight black hair plastered down over his forehead, staring into space with a look of infinite sadness. After a long while sitting in silence with the same brooding expression, he motioned the mariachis over to his table, handed them a few pesos, and made a mumbled request. They played beautifully, and when they were done with the song, the man, though outwardly unmoved, handed them more pesos and asked for another. Again, his demeanor remained impassive as he monopolized the six-piece band.
Then suddenly, mournfully, without raising his eyes from the table, he began to sing. Still seated, looking at no one else, he sang of love and loss and broken hearts, his voice rich, deep, and beautifully modulated. Every customer in the café listened with rapt attention. More pesos, another song. The sad-faced man in a guayabera shirt, eyes almost shut now, sang and sang, the crowd cheering wildly after each song ended. He seemed oblivious to their roars of approval, focused through slit eyes on some point far away – or deep inside his battered skull – his voice carrying over the now-empty mercado and into the night.
I ate well in Oaxaca. I had chocolate atole, a thick hot chocolate beverage with the texture of Cream of Wheat, made from local chocolate, cinnamon, and cornmeal. I tried an ice cream made with leche quemada (burned milk), which is surprisingly delicious. I sampled the mysteries of the seven moles, watched queso fresco being made – a fresh farmer cheese – saw how one batch can be taken along to make a drier, aged variety, and a soft-curd version. At the mercado, I bought morcilla and chorizo sausages from one of the butchers, had them grilled with the garnishes and tortillas available from the many ‘make your own’ taco stands. I had a marvelous menudo, a spicy tripe and offal soup/stew, returning later to try pozole, a similar dish with chick peas. Outside the mercado, I found a busy taco stand, packed with Oaxaqueños sitting on benches. A cook and an assistant were hard at work hacking up a freshly cooked pig’s head, rolling up still-warm portions of tender pork in corn tortillas, then drizzling them with salsa verde.
I squeezed in between some locals and ordered a few. Best tacos ever. I could have sat there forever under a naked lightbulb, surrounded by enthusiastically eating Mexicans and their children. But there were people waiting for a spot. I returned the next night, and the next.
Off a dirt road in the farmland around Oaxaca de Juárez, the state’s capital, Dominga made me tamales. She cooked in a small outdoor kitchen: a charcoal fire, clay saucepan, steamer, a comal for toasting, a mortar and pestle, and a stone rolling pin. Chickens and roosters wandered around the dusty back lot and small garden, near the pigpens.
We were going to the molino, the community mill, where for centuries Mexicans have gone, often every day, to grind their dried corn for masa, their dried chilis for mole, and their chocolate and their coffee beans on stone wheels. Dominga was a short, wide woman with mestizo features and strong arms and hands, which had seen a lot of