Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Hermano Sandwich - part 1
I’m going out on a limb here, people. There’s a story I’ve wanted to start for months and months. I know I’m not going to finish it, but I have a good start in mind, and since yesterday was Mardi Gras - the Carne Vale - and because I saw a particular Venture Brothers episode just the day before that, I actually started writing this story yesterday. I haven’t even re-read it, and I will have to finish this “start” today on the busride home, but it just feels like time to share what I’ve got. Story-wise, I mean. So here’s part 1 of part 1 of (working title) “Hot Meal.”
The day was hot, and getting hotter. Dust rose in a cloud that never dissipated, slowly growing thicker as the sun climbed in the cloudless sky. Our shadows grew shorter and we doffed the heavy coats we’d had to wear earlier in the day, wiping the sweat from our foreheads as we stood behind the stacks of trinkets, fruits and vegetables we’d laid out on our blankets over the bare earth. Folk just kept coming, singlely and in small groups and large families, until the knots of shoppers and merrymakers had coalesced into a veritable crowd: young women in their brightest skirts throwing laughing glances over their shoulders; young fathers inculcating their young sons with newly-minted market sense and bargaining skills; motley vendors and vagabond cooks selling hot lunches and cold drinks to the hoarse and hungry masses. Minstrels and corridistas filled with music that part of the air not already full of dust and the scent of grilled meat.
It seemed that meat was suddenly being cooked everywhere I looked. Beef was seared in glistening slabs and as small skewered morsels; chicken pirouetted over open flames, interspersed with slathered masses of meaty ribs and joints; pork abounded in every form - ears and maws and feet, whole sucklings sold as-is or in parts, carnitas and chilis and hams; goats and rabbit and small game were being simmered, boiled, charred and sold - a dizzying conclave of carne’. I’d set out that morning before dawn with nothing in my stomach but half a plate of cold beans and a green onion; I’d been selling my produce all day in the open sun. I couldn’t help it, see? It all smelled so good, and I was so hungry. I began to hunt for my lunch, letting my nose lead me to the most succulent-smelling opportunity.
I found it at the edge of the fairground: a man squatting alone by a bed of amber coals, grilling strips of pale meat that smelled better than anything I’d ever eaten, better than anything I’d ever imagined. I’d found him by following the sweet redolence of his cooking smoke, a scent that had captivated me from the first whiff: moist, peppery, rich, flavorful even when merely imbibed through the nostrils. I hurried over to him, glad no one else had discovered him and that I did not have to contend with others to purchase the food he was offering for sale. I would have my pick of what he offered.
The vendor wore a wool serape and a highlander’s traditional black bowler hat as he tended his firepit in the noontime heat, and he did not lift his eyes from his flames and his savory sizzling meat when I approached and asked to buy some of his food. I salivated as he picked a few particularly luscious pieces from the dark grill with his naked fingers, pressed them into a tortilla with a piece of lettuce, sprinkled it with salt and handed it to me.
The first bite was even better than I’d anticipated: hot juices shot into my mouth and the flesh collapsed between my teeth with tender resignation. The flavor was sublime, piquant and sweet at once. Never had I enjoyed a piece of meat so much; I was unable to slow myself down before I’d wolfed down half my meal. I wanted it to last a little longer so I forced myself to pause, sinking to my haunches across the circle of coals from him to tell him, “It’s the best food I’ve ever eaten.” Slowly he raised his eyes to mine. That’s when the day turned cold for me.
