In some parts of the arid central Mexico and by far not limited to Puebla and Oaxaca, I sometimes get the stark impression of there being more taco stands than trees, so heavy the deforestation and so blasting, smoking, sizzling and pervasive the grills concocting the corn or flour based handheld consumables towards the embraces of which so many sectors of society find themselves magnetized seven days a week and then some.
And the part pleasant part offensive fragrance of oils seeping as far as likely the ozone layer, seeping, revolving, rupturing like a volcano manifold enough in the vicinity to menace the population if not at least disturb sleep in the more eruptive moods akin to a few nights back when I thought I heard gunfire, but sigh, what a relief, it’s just the lava ejaculating yon near all those less privileged residential areas - I can’t seem to rid myself of that fragrance now taken residence in the proboscis neural circuitry, unsure if they are actually tossing those tacos around the corner or I’m hallucinating deep frying oils.
I’m quiet earnest about that active volcano. Plenty of them in Guatemala enabling a sort of tourist appeal though largely dormant should you not hike towards the higher and colder elevations. But here one looms close by as plain as my five digits.
Onions, jitomate (that’s the specific term for solid tomatoes), lemon, diverse salsa, chile and potentially guacamole render the labor life force. Though an incredibly diverse gastronomy, tacos de pastor appear to be the cornerstone, signifying an all-fare-game preparation methodology consisting of any combination of shredded meats derived from the animal kingdom.
But among the corn or flour handhelds we also witness tostadas, sopes, gorditas, flautas, quesadillas, tlayudas, empanadas, arepas and tortas (and cuernitos and chalupas), to varying degree of deep frying and intestinal abuse fatal to a particular eastern European makeup though some rather benign and one or two near indigenous with proper care, list by no means exhaustive especially once ventured into the not entirely handheld kingdom of the enchilada, tamale, chile relleno (stuffed chile like the Slavic cabbage detestable in childhood, except terminally spicy), elote (the corn cocktail) or the soups otherwise known as the consome or the pazole.
«Vamos a echar unos tacos güay». I probably sport a screwed up notion of the country, though full of tenderness and sympathy save for the gastronomy avoidable through clever connivance. Appealing to voluntary memory, I can’t recall street food more integral to a country but maybe somewhere in southeast Asia, forming the immediate instinctual mind surging visual. Nor can I disassociate this aspect from my overall impression when observed the obesity, alas, as explosive across the population as the neighboring US.
Questions, comments? Connect.