Adelantero, An Adventure

There are twelve hours left.  New Mexico is threatening rain and thunder, but still I am packed and as ready externally as I can be for the road.  Internally, I suppose I’m as ready as I can be as well, but I can’t know until I’m actually in Mexico, on the bike, with every part of my life in my own hands. 

In twelve hours, I get in the car, pull out from Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary, and drive south to the border.  Then it all begins.

The final despedida.

So far, lunch had consisted of a Häagen-Dazs milk shake on the sidewalk around the Santa Fe plaza. It had been a fantastic milk shake of Belgian chocolate and dark chocolate peanut butter ice creams, but the afternoon was nearing an end and we figured some real food might be a good choice, all things considered.

Admittedly the Plaza District is not the sort of place where one goes to find a diverse selection of cuisine. Nearly every street is home to a restaurant, but it takes some effort to find one serving something other than southwest food. We walked the streets and perused menus. Our winners turned to losers as we discovered restaurants had stopped serving lunch and were not yet serving dinner. In all honesty, we supposed, four o’clock is a bit late to eat lunch.

We succumbed to rationality and took a seat on a bench with our tourist map complete with a restaurant list and examined the possibilities. Options came and went as we noticed hours and prices. I’d just gotten off the phone with mom when we found our restaurant. I stood up. “Let’s go,” I said, and took off down the street. After a moment Lydia pointed out that I had no idea where I was going. We stopped to review the map. We were almost ready to set off again when I was accosted by two young tourists who insisted I was a European. I didn’t understand at first which no doubt helped the illusion but in the end they left. I reviewed myself and figured I did look vaguely European with my long hair, Greek fisherman’s cap, button shirt, low rise jeans with cuffs rolled, strange shoes, and the lit cigarette in hand. I smiled.

Five blocks away, we parked the car directly in front of our destination. Through the window I could see two people seated and we were relieved - an open restaurant. As we entered Los Mayas restaurant, we discovered the two were actually staff and after walking down a short entryway, we encountered an empty dining room with no host or wait staff to be seen. A casual glance through the open kitchen door gave us no further clues as the place was empty and somewhat dark.

Glancing at a menu liberated from a stack on the host’s desk we began to examine our options. Lydia’s vegetarian needs were assuaged on the last page and we returned the faux-leather book back to the pile.

A waitress appeared briefly at our side.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said in a mild latino accent before hurrying off again to parts unknown. We smiled sympathetically and held our ground

A moment later she appeared again and grabbed two stapled paper menus off the top of a different stack, thought better, and pulled two cleaner menus out of the middle before ushering us to a table. The table was clothed in a paper table cloth and adorned with silverware and cleverly folded napkins. A glass votive candle holder sat in the corner absolutely filled with hardened wax. A lonely tea candle sat atop the wax at a jaunty angle. We sat and the waitress hurried off once more. I paged through the paper menu (clearly the faux-leather variety was for dinner guests or those possessing some quality we lacked).

Anticipating the inevitable next step I glanced at the beverage selection. True to form our waitress was back with a basket of tortilla chips, a bowl of salsa, and an inquiry as to our choice of drinks. Lydia ordered a glass of water, and I asked about soft drinks.

“We have Coke, Sprite…” she trailed off.
“I’ll have a Coke,” I interjected, trying to save her any embarassment to be had either on account of her lack of memory of the soda collection or her restaurant’s meager selection. She agreed to bring us those things and disappeared.

Returning to the menu, Lydia decided to try a dish of cooked calabazitas, or little squashes, which would turn out to be zucchini, and other vegetables. I settled on the “Santa Fe Classic” of a chicken enchilada and two hard shell beef “tacos,” to be served with beans, rice, posale, and guacamole.

The waitress returned carrying our drinks and with a question. As it would happen, the cook had yet to arrive and would we wait ten minutes? We smiled understandingly and told her there was nothing to worry about, that we were in no hurry.

By this time an older waiter had materialized on the small stage by our table and was hard at work playing a CD of Mexican music on the sound system. Slowly this restaurant was becoming more and more charming.

We were seated outside on a patio covered by an aged tent. The exterior walls were made of pieces of wood paneling that allowed you the comfort of knowing that the street outside existed but not the discomfort of having to watch cars and small children pass by. Blue painted wood columns, every one split or leaning, supported the wooden structure of the patio, and atrociously misplaced murals and handles decorated the walls. On the stage two dilapidated and beautiful thrones were complemented by an empty microphone stand, an old CD player intent on making every album skip, and a small sound board endearingly perched on a music stand. Two large umbrellas covered a number of tables and we were baffled briefly by their purpose, being of course already under the large tent roof.

Our waitress arrived again, this time carrying two small salads “on the house.” We expressed some small suprise and thanked her for her generosity. The small dessert plates in front of us held each a small assortment of lettuce, escarole, and one of those red leaves whose name always escapes me. The dressing was suprisingly good and had a clear base of citrus.

At last the cook had arrived and we placed our order with the assurances that our food would be out “really quick.” I continued my assault on the basket of chips.

A family had arrived and the older waiter was clearly having great fun entertaining them. They ordered guacamole prepared tableside and a cart was promptly delivered, gloves put on, avocados sliced, and so on.

Before long the cook came out with our dishes and our waitress indicated in Spanish whose was whose. He was gone before thank yous could be properly applied. The plate before me was quite the suprise. In terms of presentation at a restaurant serving southwest and Mexican food, I’ve come to expect at most an oval plate absolutely covered, with burrito smashing up against refried beans and Spanish rice, everything topped with a smattering of cheese and maybe some parsley thrown in for good measure. In comparison, this dish was exquisite. On my square plate I found my enchilada topped with cheese. Above it a dollop of guacamole, slightly spaced. In the right upper corner my rice was stacked with a garnish of parsley sticking out of the top. Below it lay my two beef shells at an angle next to a cheese covered serving of beans. Every item was spaced and attention was paid to the negative space and juxtaposition. I stared for a moment.

I began the enchilada first and after eating through some of it, I had to stop. “How do you eat a hard shell?” I asked Lydia. “I never eat these and I never order them because I’m not sure if I should eat it with my hand or a fork.”

“With your hands,” she said.

As a more reasonable hour for dining approached, the restaurant began to fill. The speakers still effused Mexican ballads with a few gentle urgings and the occasional ” Ay! Mi maquinita!” from the waiter in charge of it. Full as we were, we accepted a free torta de tres leches from the house for agreeing not to pay with a credit card. As we headed across the patio towards the exit, our stomachs bulging with food, a chorus of gratitude rained about us from the staff.