Mercado Merced and Dispelled Misconceptions

I’m a nut for markets. Farmer’s markets, flea markets, (not super markets), any kind of shopping that involves outdoor stalls. Going to Mercado Merced is like going to the Mecca of all markets. It’s the oldest market in all of Mexico, purportedly just blocks away from where Aztecs first spotted the eagle with a snake in its mouth. The original heartbeat of the city. It’s the largest in Mexico taking up 53 square blocks. It’s a cacophony of color, textures, and aromas.

We took a tour with Eat Mexico. One of the most expensive things we’ve done this trip and worth every penny. Besides not being confident in my fledgling Spanish I have even less confidence in my sense of direction. I did not want to waste time getting lost while eating grasshoppers(chapulines) and not be able to find un jugo to wash it down. So we took a tour. And on this tour, three more misconceptions about Mexico became clearly dispelled for me:

1. “Mexican food is so heavy.”

Our guide describes her first three years living in Mexico City and working in restaurants, “I worked 13 to 14 hour days with no break. It was hard, hot work. I needed something that would give me energy throughout the day. People here work very, very hard.” Starting the day with a tamale or a gordita will give you something that will stick to your ribs. I think of my students’ parents who work in the fields. I don’t see any salad bar waiting for them during their break time nor do they have multiple breaks so that they can “graze” throughout the day. So the next time you hear someone say, “Mexican food is heavy” ask them the last time they did hard labor for 13 hours with no break. Did they realize they were eating like a laborer and not like a Mexican?  

Which reminds me, an uber driver recounted all the dishes we should try while we’re here, “¡Voy a pesar mas cuando regresamos!” I exclaimed.  “¡No! No come mucho” she admonished. Visualize me slapping my forehead. Of course! Our American sized appetites are more responsible for Moctezuma’s revenge than Moctezuma’s ancestors.

2. “There’s not enough vegetables in Mexican food.”

If you grew up only eating super burritos at taquerias then, sure. I grew up eating beans, a high protein legume. Alongside that my grandma would make un guiso (guisado): a quick stew made with vegetables, any small amount of meat on hand, onion, garlic, cumino (still one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten and I’m sure would have been equally delicious without the meat). In the market there were hierbas and frutas I had never seen: pápalo, a more delicate version of cilantro, squash blossoms are not a delicacy here. Piles and piles of greens! A vegetarian can eat como una reyna on Mexican cuisine.

 3. “But refried beans are made with lard!”

“Waste not, want not” is one of my grandma’s top sayings along with:

“En boca cerrada, no entran moscas”

“You better go to sleep or the cucuy will come get you” and “Be careful. There’s alot of crazies out there.” All which are true by the way. And, while “waste not, want not” is English in origin it might as well be Mexican. Walking through the market I see why it spoke to my Grandma: this expression is a way of life here.

Un cabeza, they serve all parts fresh

Nothing is wasted, nothing.  Banana leaves are used fresh one way, dry another. Every part of an animal can be stewed, braised, fried into something delicious. We ate tacos de cabeza sortida (cows head tacos with a little bit of everything: tongue, brain, cheek), huitlacoche (corn fungus) and squash blossom quesadillas(where do our squash blossoms go?). Corn is made into a masa multiplying its use by at least ten or blended into a warm, sweet, atole. Tamales are given a second life by being fried. Why do you think we have chilaquiles? So which is better? Using land to grow corn whose only purpose is to make oil or using the oil that comes from the animal already slaughtered? (Vegans I got nothing for you here). Conservation is an indigenous way of life and Mexicans are the O.G.’s of conservation and sustainability.

How we talk about a people’s food can be an insidious way of allowing deficit talk about a country and its people. Perhaps what we really should be talking about are the qualities we could emulate from their food and their culture that can make our own lives better.

Large chapulines, I could eat these everyday. Michael said they were looking at him.

Un Dia en Roma

With pesos in our pockets we head out to explore our neighborhood for the week: Roma Norte. Specific destination: Panaderia Rosetta of Rosetta fame. But first, just on the corner, we find an Argentinian restaurant that will be showing a Gold Cup match later. Watching soccer matches has become a tradition when we travel. We're already starting to feel at home.

Calle Durango is meant for strolling, tree lined with flower beds and wrought iron. The air is sweet and the sky is clear. I continue to feel relieved after our rough arrival yesterday and humbled by how much traveling teaches me about the world. But before I can contemplate this further I need breakfast! Panaderia here we come.



 


Our mission today is to acclimate to the altitude and the culture, namely, the language. As this blog is titled "Una Chicana's First Time to Mexico City" there are a few things I should share, otherwise known as the ABC's of Marvilyn's cultural identity:
A. I'm Mexican (a surprise for some, "duh" for others)
B. "Mexican-American" is not a hyphenation I grew up with, we were all just Mexican
C. I don't speak Spanish

Let me expand on letra C. I don't speak Spanish well. I grew up around it. I took classes in high school(if you know me well you know how that was) and college. Being a non-Spanish speaking Chicanx is enough to make anyone need lifetime Cultural Identity Therapy (CIT for short with the "C" pronounced as "S," kidding, it's not really a thing) especially in the U.S. where we're not Mexican enough to be truly Mexican or white enough to be All American. "Ni de aqui, ni de alla" as they say. So let's just say that going to Mexico for the first time means this Chicanita has much more baggage than her carry on.

There were enough people in line at the panaderia for me to think through said baggage: "What if they don't understanding me? What if they insist on speaking in English after hearing me butcher their language? What if they laugh and throw stale pan at me, driving me away in shame, panless and hungry?" I breathe and steele myself as the line grows shorter and shorter.

A "buenos dias," a smile, and "para dos, por favor" was all it took. I make a cringe worthy order of "un cafecito" and only a simple question, "Que tipo? Tenemos..." No eye roll, no frustration, no yelling louder for all to know that I did not indeed speak the language. A little small talk with the woman at the bar next to me and it was happening...I was speaking Spanish!

The rest of the day we wander La Roma practicando espanol. We shop at pop-up bazaars housed in old mansions with artisans selling their wares. I buy a beaded necklace from a woman from Guanajuato, "Donde aprendiste hacer eso?" I ask her.
"El internet" respondio and we both laugh. She tells me that Tulum, in Guanajuato, has many expatriates and that her son helps her translate. Not needed here. My Spanish is not the best, but this week I get to practice with the kindest people to make it better.

Llegada

"Crowded," "smoggy," "dirty," this is what I've typically heard about Mexico City and in the first minutes of our arrival, as we exited the airport and entered the exhaust laden air, as we drove through La Merced and it's streets strewn with garbage and buildings blackened with grime I had a feeling of dread. Was what I've heard true?
    Okay, I can handle smell, grime, garbage, but then I looked over at Michael who was unsuccessfully trying to put on a seat belt that was much more decorative than functional and gave him a wide eyed tight smile. I knew(hoped) there was another side of the city, "Roma," "Chapultapec," "Coyoacan." I prayed that I was right and that I didn't drag a man who loves being at home more than life itself into a week of coughing and avoiding garbage.
     Our taxi driver raced recklessly down the streets. Similar to Athens, there was no rhyme or reason to turns, honks, or swerves. How drivers drive is a whole language in of itself which does not have the word, "cautious" in its vocabulary. And then we turned...

Off of Avenida Chapultapec, down tree lined Medellin and past the Fuente de Cibeles, a plaza, restaurants with outdoor tables, I breathed a sigh of relief. We arrived in Roma Norte.