Hallelujah! The Welcome Table_ A Lifetime of Memories With Recipes - Maya Angelou [23]
One day she invited me to visit. She lived in Santa Monica on the ground floor in a generous apartment of a building she owned. Her living room was rich with antique furniture, and the paintings of John Biggers, Elizabeth Catlett, and Samella Lewis hung on her walls.
M.J. was a rich-cream-colored woman with green-gray eyes and an electric personality. She told me that the doctor was coming for dinner and that she had an incredible recipe for tamales. Her smile of satisfaction was just comfortably one grin away from a smirk.
When I probed, she said her suitor loved Mexican food and he thought only some California Mexicans and a few Texas Mexicans could prepare tamales properly. She said whenever he was near a Mexican restaurant that served tamales, he was like a runaway horse. She had seen him pull up and halt and all but paw the ground at its door.
M.J. had bought all the ingredients to make dozens of her beloved’s delight. She knew I cooked Mexican food often and she wanted me to see that everything went off well. I sat on a kitchen stool as she made arroz con pollo, refried beans, guacamole, salsa, carne Colorado, and, finally, the vaunted tamales. Her entire house was filled with the culinary perfumes of Guadalajara and Oaxaca and Jalisco.
The doctor entered the living room, but when we were introduced he could hardly concentrate enough to complete the simplest social pleasantries of “How are you?” and “Well, and you?”
I watched as his nostrils twitched from side to side, trying to ascertain if the aromas he thought he encountered were really there. He asked M.J. if she had sent out for Mexican food. She told him she had cooked the dinner. He asked what was on the menu. She answered, “Guacamole, chips, salsa, arroz con pollo, ” and so forth. She listed all the dishes except the much-adored tamales.
With each mention of food his smile widened and his body seemed to wave. He said, “If you had told me, I could have picked up some tamales. I was near the cafe.”
She said, “Maybe we’ll make do tonight. Maya is eating with us. Will you make drinks?”
The doctor surprised me. He was familiar enough with M.J.’s house to know where the liquor was kept and where to find highball glasses. She had not told me everything.
M.J. had set the table with colorful linens and Mexican plates. When she served the beans and rice, the carne Colorado, and the chicken and rice, the doctor spoke from the depth of a deep enchantment. “You made this? You yourself?”
As she headed toward the kitchen, she motioned me to sit down. I did so.
“Who would have thought that a smart and pretty woman like you could cook like this? This table looks like the real thing. If you had told me, I could have picked up some tamales.”
She walked in carrying a plate filled with the doctor’s dream comestibles. When he saw the platter he lost all sense of propriety. He plucked a tamale and put it on his plate. When he unwrapped the hot savory from the cornhusks, his face was a study in hope and apprehension. The long cornmeal tamale lay on his plate, and he waited a few seconds just in case it wasn’t as good as he wished. Then he lifted his fork and cut a bite and put it in his mouth.
As the flavored cornmeal and the seasoned meat filling melted, he began to smile. Then the smile widened and he started to laugh. He made no eye contact, so he wasn’t sharing the laughter. He was just enjoying himself with himself. When he finished the tamale, he looked at M.J. Looked at her as if he had never really seen her. Looked at her and realized that this woman who pleased him in many other ways could also cook tamales to make his heart stand still.
I was not at all surprised when M.J. told me that later that night he said he wanted to talk about a longtime commitment.
Tamales de Maiz con Pollo
(green cornhusk tamales with chicken filling)