B OW #21: Chili Con Carne

Tijuana, Mexico

March 1, 1974 —

1:50 p.m. Pacific Standard Time

Afraid to get twisted around. Deciding to stay on ‘Via Ote’.

Looking for a restaurant with the word ‘American’ someplace on a sign or the window.

Remaining on ‘Via Ote’. Passing streets with the names of: ‘Via Oriente’; ‘Via Poniente’ and ‘Avenida Miguel Negrete’,

“Jeeze, Marcie, these streets sound so, uh, foreign .”

Giggling. “Maybe that’s because we’re in a foreign country.”

Midway across the next street...

Holding Marsha’s elbow, steering her across the street. “There’s one!”

On the corner was ‘The Alamo’ and beneath the neon sign was the word ‘American’.

Crossing the street. “ ‘The Alamo’ seems like a pretty weird name for a restaurant in Mexico.”

“Yeah...” Marsha said “...maybe it’s to make Americans feel at home.”

“Or to remind Mexicans that Texas used to be theirs.”

Walking into what appeared to be a mock Mexican/American style restaurant. The beige, rough-hewn stucco walls were dotted with old fashioned, sepia-tone photographs of ‘banditos’ wearing wide brimmed sombreros with crossed bandoleers of bullets sporting old fashioned pistols or rifles. There were like photographs of troops of Mexican soldiers, and ‘fédérales’ holding pistols or rifles forward and one spotlighted, large sepia-toned picture of ‘Pancho Villa’ mounted upon a white horse.

At this time of day ‘The Alamo’ was fairly crowded with, easy to spot, American tourists having the same idea as Mitchell and Marsha that did not want to ‘go native’, that were looking for drinkable water and an authentic Mexican meal.

A small stack of menus held in both hands, “Two for lunch?” an older waiter in black slacks, a white dress shirt and black bow tie asked in broken English.

“Yes, just us.”

Following the waiter to a window table looking through to the rather dirty, bustling street then held the seat for Marsha who murmured, “Thank you.”

Laying menus onto the table before Marsha and Mitchell, “May I bring the lady and mister drinks?”

“Yes...” figuring one would not affect his driving, remembering the tart/sweet drink of the evening before in San Diego “… a Margarita, please.”

Enjoying the sweet, banana liquor drink. “A Harvey Wallbanger, please.”

His eyebrows quizzically moving upward. “ ‘Ball Banger’?” the waiter questioned.

Looking at Mitchell, both trying to keep straight faces.

“Just a Coke, please.”

“Yes, Misses.”

“So, now that we’re here, you have ‘any’ idea what you've a taste for?”

Opening the menu. “Beats me.”

Both sets of eyes looking from top to bottom of the large, three paged menu.

To...

‘Camaros Ensenada’ and ‘Quesadilla Del Mar’ and ‘Arroz A

Tumbuda’ and ‘Las Brisas Marinas’ and ‘Carne Asada’ and ‘Pollo Rostisado’ and ‘Arroz Con Pollo’ and ‘Carnitas Guadalajara’ ….

...And so on and so on…

Eyes traveling up and down, from page to page.

“What is all this stuff?”

“Don’t know, baby, it’s all foreign to me.”

Turning from the last page back to the second page,…

Spotting something that looked somewhat familiar.

‘Chili Con Carne’!

“Hey…” Marsha said “...I make chili, a recipe I got from your mom. How different can it be?”

Knowing that ‘chili Con Carne’ here in Mexico— more than likely would be ‘much’ different than his mother’s chili. But over the years learning that leaving his wife to make her own decisions accounted for much of the peace in their home. So keeping his opinion to himself, shrugging his shoulders, “I have no idea.”

Dressed as the waiter: White shirt with a black bow tie and a black, ankle length skirt, a beautiful black haired, dark eyed — about twelve year old girl brought a large bowl with…

“ ‘Nachos’, Mister.” And a smaller bowl with, “ ‘salsa’, Misses.” Then moved aside as the older man returned to the table…

“Your drinks, Misses.” Handing Marsha a glass with ice and a six ounce bottle of Coca Cola — with the cap popped but still on the bottle, and Mitchell a huge, frosty, frothy, salt rimmed glass.

Looking at the ice in her glass...

Having seen the look thousands of times.

“It’s okay, Misses….” glancing at Mitchell “...all our ice comes from bottled water.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Misses.”

“Okay.” Pouring some Coca Cola into her glass, but not yet quite willing to drink it.

“You like to order now?”

“Yes…” Marsha said “...I’ll have the ‘Chili Con Carne’ with your…” having no idea what re-fried beans were, however “… re-fried beans and rice.”

“Salad or soup, Misses?”

“Your salad, is it…”

“Yes, Misses…” hearing it thousands of times “... we wash all our vegetables and fruit in bottled water.”

“Okay, I’ll have the salad with, uh...” really not thinking they did, but asking anyway “...you have garlic dressing?”

“Yes, Misses.” Making a show of kissing the tips of his thumb, fore and index fingers. “We make the most delicious garlic dressing in all of Tijuana.”

Having seen what he had seen of Tijuana so far, Mitchell was not to sure that was much of a recommendation

But Marsha...

“Okay, yes...”

Truly enjoying the garlic dressing she had the night before at ‘Fisherman's Grotto’.

“...I’ll have your garlic dressing.”

“You, Mister?”

Still having no idea. Attempting to decide.

“Uh…” noticing a near by waiter serving a delectable smelling plate to a neighboring table — with a large cylindrical cream colored... “...what is that?” Nodding his head forward.

Glancing over his shoulder. “A ‘burrito’, Mister.”

“What’s in it?”

“A burrito can be with shrimp, chicken, pork or beef, or you can have a combination with any two, and it is stuffed with three different cheeses and sauteed onions and beans, Mister.”

“Okay, yes!” Sold on a burrito stuffed with… “Shrimp! I’ll have a burrito with shrimp.”

Backing away from the table, “Thank you.”

Taking a nacho, Marsha dipped two thirds of it into the thick, rick looking salsa, brought it to her mouth and chewed..

...And ‘very’ quickly— popping the cap with her thumb, sending it spinning across the table, poured Coke into her glass and, gulping a mouthful. “Wow...” she said after catching her breath “...that’s pretty hot stuff.”

Taking a nacho, Mitchell dipped the very tip into the salsa, shook the excess off and bit it off… Then quickly licked a bit of salt from the rim of the glass — which cooled the heat in his mouth, and took a drink…

“Yaght!”

“What’s wrong?”

“My, God, this is one hell of a strong drink!”

“You had one of those last night, and you liked it then.”

“Yeah, but last night it was kind’a sweet and sourly and tasted really good, but this is…” holding the glass up, looking at it “… ‘really’ sourly and ‘really’ strong!”

Generally margaritas made south of the border are generally far different than margaritas made north of the border, and generally were ‘nowhere’ as sweet, and far… far stronger.

“Misses.”

Setting the round steel tray onto a small side able.

“Chili Con Carne, for the lady.”

Placing a steaming soup bowl before her heaped with red beans, chunks of pork and sweet smelling red sauce along with a small bowl of Spanish rice, and — experience telling him, assuming shed would need another the waiter replaced Marsha’s now empty Coke bottle with another partially uncapped bottle.

“Mmmm, that smells so good and…” nodding her head at the fresh bottle “...thank you!”

“ ‘Gracias’.”
“Mister.”

Placing a dish with a huge, tan colored burrito sitting on a bed of Spanish rice, drizzled with dark brown gravy.

“That looks delicious. Thank you!”

“Gracias…” backing away from the table “...Muchas gracias!”

Cutting into the Burrito with the edge of his fork, putting it into his mouth and chewing…

“Mmmm…” Mitchell said “...this is delicious!”

Spearing her fork into a small chunk of pork that sat within the dish of Chili Con Carne and putting it into her mouth, Marsha chewed… Gasped, and…Her eyes opening wide…

Notation: This entire scenario taking place within a thirty second span.

Spearing her fork into a small chunk of pork that sat submerged within the dish of Chili Con Carne and, putting it into her mouth, Marsha chewed… Gasped, and…Her eyes opening wide…

“Ulp!”

Marsha Lipensky’s eyes opened so wide they looked as though they might pop from their sockets as, gasping, her pursed lips sucked air inward as, again flicking the bottle cap off with her thumb, as— this time sending it rolling across the table also, by the way, attracting her husband’s attention, as — not bothering with her glass, grabbing the bottle of Coca Cola b y it’s neck and bringing it directly to her mouth taking one long gulping, gurgling drink the entire six ounce bottle was emptied but yet— afraid of chocking on it, the small chunk of firery ifused saturated meat instinctively remaining safely ensconced within her cheek.

Having a good degree of Jewish culture, spitting the — by now somewhat masticated chunk of molten pork back into her dish of Chili Con Carne was out of the question and spitting it onto the table was ‘defiantly’ out of the question and, in the ‘literal’ heat of the moment not thinking of spitting it into the linen napkin that sat spread across her lap, what else could Marsha Lipensky do but swallow it bringing the spice infuced heat that remained within her mouth downward, through her throat and into what she estimated to be her stomach...

Notation: As margaritas made south of the border are generally ‘far’ different than margaritas made north of the border…

So then, in ‘Tijuana, Mexico’, chili is different… ‘far’ different than chili made north of the border by this Jewish housewife from ‘Schaumburg, Illinois’ with a recipe — ‘of sorts’ given her by her Jewish Mother-in-law from Chicago, Illinois… who called it ‘chili’.

As...

Fanning her tongue with her hand. “Mithie, thith sthuff’s ‘terrible’!”

Her eyes touching on Mitchell’s ice blended margarita, grabbing it off the table, Marsha Lipensky stuck her tongue in it.

With a sense of comical disbelief at the sight of his wife with her tongue cooling in his drink, fighting to keep from laughing. “Hot stuff?” Mitchell asked.

“Ain’t funny! ‘Hot stuff’, ‘yeah’!”

Making a different kind of a face now.

“Yuck! You’re right; this stuff ‘is’ terrible! Here…” handing the glass back to her husband “...you drink it!”.

Taking the glass that moments ago had his wife’s tongue in it. Looking at it a moment. “No thanks.” He placed it on the table.

“What’s the matter?” Giggling. “My tongue’s good enough when it’s in your mouth, but it’s not okay when I stick it in your ‘yucky’ drink?”

“Yeah, okay.” Seeing bits of pork floating in the lime colored liquid. “I didn’t plan on drinking anymore of the stuff anyway… So…” pointing to her dish “...what do you want to do with that?”

Bringing air into her cheeks, making a throaty gagging sound while puffing in and out as though vomiting.

“Should we see if they’ll swap it for something else?”

“Yes. I certainly can’t eat it!”

Looking for their waiter, he signaled for him to come over.

“She can’t eat this!” Mitchell explained to the old waiter. “It’s too hot.”

As though speaking to a child. “ ‘Too hot’, Mister?” Lifting Marsha’s unused salad fork and taking a forkful, putting it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing. “This is not ‘too hot’, Mister.”

“Well she can’t eat it. Will you swap it for something else?”

Knowing these two were tourists and would never be back. Having seen red faced gringos gasping for air hundreds, if not thousands of times — ‘Remembering the Alamo’.

“ ‘Swap’?” The waiter said. “I don’t understand what you mean, ‘swap’.”

“Can she have something in place off...” pointing “...this.”

“If you wish to pay for another meal.”

“Forget it, Mitchell! That looks like a lot to eat anyway...” gesturing to the huge burrito on his plate “...so split it with me and if you’re still hungry we’ll get something else later.”

Thinking, You just blew your tip! “Take her dish away…” doing a shushing motion with his hand “...and just give us a clean one, and two more Cokes.”

Shrugging his shoulders, the old waiter took Marsha’s plate, which shortly would become his lunch.

A few minutes lather the pretty little Mexican girl brought one clean plate along with two Cokes along with two ice filled clean glasses.

***

Following the return street directions he’d made, coming out of ‘The Alamo’ they turned left onto ‘Via Ote’, walked past the corners of ‘Avenida Miguel Negrete’, ‘Via Poniente’ and ‘Via Oriente’ to ‘Empleados Federales’ then…

As the sidewalk over the bridge had a one way, south bound turnstile into Mexico, in order to return to America all visitors must go through ‘Immigration’ where they are asked for identification by a U.S, Border Patrol Officer, then allowed to return to the U.S.A.

Next BOW #22 Sophie