Our server, Luis, was excited by the culinary treat he had in store for us and perhaps a bit proud to show off his English. “We have, for this moment, a special,” he said, pausing briefly for dramatic effect: “Stomach of cow.”
Kayne and I briefly looked at each other, as if to confirm that we had indeed heard what we thought we’d heard. “No,” we responded in unison.
“It’s very good,” Luis persisted.
“No,” we said again.
Maybe Luis figured he had good reason to expect that we would be happy to ingest some stomach of cow. (Don’t they come in fours?) He had, after all, previously induced one or both of us to consume grasshoppers, ants and a worm, all served up with an accompanying ration of mezcal. Mezcal, a variety of tequila, is known to induce some strange choices in humans.
But no. It’s important to know where to draw the line on comestibles, and Kayne and I both draw it definitely short of bovine digestive organs.
Not that we were averse to sampling the local offerings. That’s one of the reasons we were in Mexico. We haven’t been keen on most of the signature mole sauces – chocolate-coffee-gravy on enchiladas? – we’ve tried, but are game for most of the many non-mole options on offer everywhere.
Still, why travel to Mexico for food, you might ask. Isn’t there a Cinco de Mayo just down the street?
Fact is, I’ve enjoyed Mexican food at some stateside eateries as much or more than a lot of what I’ve found in four trips to Mexico. (Ask me about Irma’s in Houston sometime.)
Instead, the main reason for going was to again experience the observation of Dia de Muertos – Day of the Dead – Mexico’s funky, slightly ghoulish, ever-so camp celebration of the departed.
Think of it as a little bit Halloween, a lot of skeletal face-painting, a steady diet of marching band parades and flowery public and private tributes to deceased family and friends. And pets.
As always in Latin cultures I looked forward to the challenge of trying to awaken long-stored – and mostly forgotten – Spanish lessons from college and sporadic studies since, hoping the mental challenge would help to stave off dementia for another week or two.
And I was surprised to discover that on at least two occasions when my brain was supposed to provide the Spanish word that everyone knows for thanks – gracias – it instead produced, and my mouth uttered, the German word for thanks, danke. One of maybe five German words I know.
Along those lines: Kayne, operating with an even more limited Spanish vocabulary, found herself sometimes defaulting to formulate her responses in Thai, her stronger language suit. It’s as if our brains recognized that something other than English was called for, but sometimes opened the wrong file cabinets.
By the way, do not assume that a restroom with M on the door is for men.
Further along those language-divide lines: Unfortunately, several of the museums we visited – from art to anthropology – included only Spanish interpretive texts for their exhibits. On the plus side, it did speed our passage through those attractions.
Non-language-related museum observation and question: Why do so many old paintings look like they need to be power-washed?
On a sociocultural note, I mention that between our two host cities I saw at least a half-dozen organ grinders playing to the various public gatherings, but no coin-gathering monkeys. I suppose that is evidence of how the entertainment business is evolving to address animal servitude.
Now the embarrassing part: Every trip to Mexico inspires a vow from me to learn more about the country’s history. Which I do to varying degrees, and then promptly forget most of. Or all.
In my defense, Mexico has had both a war of independence and a revolution, basically 100 years apart in the early 19th and 20th Centuries. (And in between, a war with us, which they think of as American Intervention. It did not go well for them.)
You might think, as I might have thought, that one of those two major conflicts gave rise to the annual Cinco de Mayo celebration that so many gringos mark with excessive Coronas and fajitas. It did not.
Instead, it commemorates the Mexican victory over the French May 5, 1862, at … Puebla, our second destination after Mexico City! We even visited the fort there, or one of the forts, where the action took place. Closed, but still… And never mind that the French returned the next year and took Puebla back. They’re gone now, as near as I could tell.
It fancifully occurs to me that had they lingered – if the French still ran Mexico, and our server’s name had been Louis instead of Luis – we still might have proudly been offered stomach of cow. They call it tripe, I understand. Our answer would be the same.
Joe Rogers is a former writer for The Tennessean and editor for The New York Times. He is retired and living in Nashville. He can be reached at jrogink@gmail.com