I live in a restaurant

I live in a restaurant. Although my husband and I purchased a popular San Pancho eatery in 2005 to remodel for our winter getaway, its previous life lingers. New paint, fresh plaster, has not obliterated the first life of our Mexican home. The walls still hum with the memory of the meals. Sandra’s Restaurant was seasoned to perfection.

The telephone-pole advertising is tattered or missing now. The tables dressed in colorful linens are gone. The iconic photographs of Frida Kahlo that decorated the outdoor dining room grace bedroom walls instead. The wine and Margarita glasses that shimmered over the bar now stack behind cupboard doors. The dozens of votive candles burned to nubbins. The restaurant’s palapa-covered dining rooms, rich with tropical ambience, breathe new life as a potting shed, a studio, and a living room al fresco.

It took us a year to sort out our lot. When she sold her restaurant, Sandra left behind cartons of culinary accoutrements. Some of the pots and pans and dishes we kept, most we gave away. And Sandra left behind a behemoth of a stove. An oversize forged iron gas contraption on coaster wheels we call Black Beauty. She’s a cumbersome thing, not easily arranged within the kitchen work area. So we designed the space to suit her needs rather than ours. Black Beauty dominates the interior of the small three-room house.

Sandra sold the restaurant, she tells us, because customer demand grew stressful. Although it was a family affair with Beto, Carlos, Gaby and others tending bar, making music, taking orders, it was Sandra in the kitchen night after night, broiling and baking, stewing and stirring and arranging upon terra cotta plates her signature dishes.

She needed a break. But it wasn’t a long one. Cooking her passion, in short order she opened a catering business. Next door to us, next door to the former restaurant that established her reputation. We know her business thrives because most afternoons we whiff the sweet smell of her success wafting beyond her open kitchen walls: garlic sautéed in butter, cumin toasted golden, rosemary crisped in olive oil. She talks of opening another restaurant. Perhaps next season. A scaled-down version of the one we call home.

I have come to realize life in a restaurant has its advantages. When customers clabber down our concrete stairs in search of an excellent meal we have an opportunity to practice Spanish. And when people in San Pancho ask where we live, we say Sandra’s Restaurant. No address required.

Dog Tales

Our housekeeper Irma’s dog, Lincoln, trots behind her as she arrives at our house. He is a fluffy Maltese whose hair is always tinged with road dust. He settles into our garden in the shade of a palm tree to wait for Irma to finish work. If he dares to poke his nose inside the house he will quickly receive a harsh reprimand from Irma.

Arm outstretched, finger pointed, Irma commands “Vete!” “Get out!” And Lincoln will slink back to safety.

“Dogs don’t belong in the house, “she reminds me as if I had invited Lincoln inside.

She knows me. Or, she knows us Americans. We treat our dogs like members of the family; they’re mascotas, pets, and we spoil them. Not so in most Mexican households. Irma and her family love Lincoln, but he lives outside, at times in their yard, but usually in the neighborhood streets.

But Cuchin, who repaired and painted our garden wall last winter, sees things differently from other Mexicans. Most days, he brought his “baby, as he called his dog, with him to work. Cuchin’s “baby,” a tiny Chihuahua, was never far from his father’s loving and watchful eyes. Cuchin was quick to condemn neglectful dog owners. His dogs, he assured us, never left the house without him. Oh - and his other “baby” was a pit bull! Fortunately, Cuchin left him at home.

Dogs hang out all over San Pancho. The majority are thin, their coats dull and matted. Some have injuries from unfriendly encounters with other animals. Most are sadly neglected. Stretched out and snoozing, they are blissfully unaware of traffic or pedestrians detouring around them. Others are in mad pursuit of moving objects, frantically barking, chasing cars, bicycles, horses, and other dogs. Running in a pack, they are formidable, though harmless.

One stray, Suzy, often accompanied Nancy, Ellen and me, uninvited, on our daily hike. She was known about town and survived on the kindness of strangers. But on our hike, Suzy only created chaos. She bounded ahead of us and then stopped right in front of us. She challenged other strays we met along the way to the point of teeth baring conflict. She ran into the path of oncoming trucks. Screeching brakes and our frantic shouts shattered any illusion of a healthy hike. When she disappeared for a few days, we were relieved.

Ellen’s dog, Lola, on the other hand, is Miss Congeniality. Everyone loves her! So when she began to accompany us on our hikes, we welcomed her. Nancy even brought a special doggie water bottle back from the States to keep her well-hydrated. Lola enjoyed our walks at first, waiting impatiently for Ellen in the morning. But soon Lola began to question the wisdom of trekking up and down countless hills. Besides, she missed being the center of attention. We barely noticed her, focusing instead on covering a lot of ground conversationally.

One day as we approached the first hill of the trail, Lola simply sat down and refused to go any further. No more foolish hiking for her. Our cajoling, demanding, or threatening moved her. Unlike Suzy, Lola knew when enough was enough.

Living With Tlaquaches

My husband and I hadn't been in San Pancho long when we came upon an opossum clinging to a tree on our property. It had very scruffy grey-brown fur, a naked tail, cruel beady eyes and a mouthful of little teeth which it showed with a grin and a hiss. This animal had no charm whatsoever. Our Mexican neighbor was with us when we made the discovery.

“Tlaquache,” he said, and before we knew what was happening he had rushed home and returned with a worn .22 caliber rifle which looked as if it had seen the revolution. Mexicans, I believe, cannot legally own firearms, but it appears real men have them hidden away somewhere. Point blank he shot it. The animal made no sound or protest; it simply dropped. He hauled it up by the tail.

“Do you want it?” he politely inquired. We graciously permitted him to take it home to his stew pot.

That wasn’t the end of the tlaquaches. A couple of times after our seasonal absences, I have found nests built under bedside tables. Now and again one saunters across the patio, but they are shy and careful. Apparently they don't like the looks of us either.

One year we returned from our summer sojourn in New Mexico to find our bathroom full of flies and a smell which we took to be a sewer issue. Investigation revealed the flies to be coming from under the bathtub which had an opening in the tiled surround in case the plumbing should go wrong. What had gone wrong was that a tlaquache had gone in there and died. Jonathan pulled out the remains with a hooked piece of rebar. Actually it's not entirely unfair that men rule the world.

Another year, another tlaquache. Night after night we awoke as it scrabbled across our bedroom; there was no door to prevent its entry since our bedroom is a thatched pavilion. We reluctantly listened as it climbed and shook the lime tree and proceeded to click, yes, click, about once a second. A mating call, I’ve since learned. Jonathan would locate the tlaquache with the flashlight and it would freeze. Awake, annoyed and finding nothing erotic in the clicks, he began to fantasize its demise. His plan was to immobilize it with the flashlight and do it in with a length of pipe which he procured and put under the bed. We were never to know if he would actually go through with this mayhem because, though an opportunity soon presented itself, a certain caution required that first he put on his pants. While he was hopping into his pants legs, trying to keep the flashlight steady and get a hold of the pipe, the tlaquache unfroze and disappeared. In fact, Jonathan’s terrifying display scared it away for the rest of the year.

Last month I came running when I heard Jonathan roar from the bathroom. A tlaquache had walked in while he was showering. He said it looked like it had a full pouch. I can only hope it is the one which learned last year that Jonathan is not to be trifled with.

A Little Night Music

For centuries Mexico was a land in deep depression. It was no help that early religions were all too interested in human sacrifice or that the conquering Spanish enslaved the population, introduced diseases that killed millions, and brought over the Inquisition for good measure. The mood was not lifted by factional wars which raged around the country for well over a hundred years, or by the humiliating loss of California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas to the northern neighbor. Nevertheless, I suspect that the root cause of the depression was that amplified sound had not yet been invented. Gracias á Dios, this boon to Mexican happiness has now penetrated into every pueblo, and happy little San Pancho has an extra measure.

Our first Christmas here (and very nearly our last) was marked by a powerful demonstration of this gift of Very Loud Sound. On the stroke of midnight, at the moment of the Santo Niño’s birth, there rang out over San Pancho the ear-splitting and sleep-shattering sounds of music from speakers hauled up to our highest hill. This might have been moving if it had been the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” or “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” but, no, it was the same Ricky Martin tape that was the run away favorite that year. And it played over and over for a full twelve hours. Mr. and Mrs. Grinch lay aghast with pillows over our heads and in the morning went out to see what the neighbors thought. They loved it.

“En México somos libres,” our friend Hillaria likes to say. In Mexico we are free. Free from interference from those gringos who might have peculiar ideas about sound pollution, that’s for sure. And we know our status. Guests don’t complain—except to the other guests. It seems we never tire of trying to convince each other that we each live in the noisiest part of town.

It has taken my husband and me some years to adjust to what is one of the great cultural differences between the two sides of the border, especially when that difference expresses itself at night. Years—and earplugs close to hand.

Our neighbor over the back wall went through a rough patch a few years back. Every Friday and Saturday for four or five months he went out and drank until the 2 AM closing at the local cantina, came home, comforted himself with boom box at full volume, and passed out. Certainly that was the scene when, driven to desperation, my husband finally went over to ask him to damp it just a bit.

“Wow, he was cooperative,” I said as my husband crawled back into bed, a lovely silence all around.

“The door was open and all the lights blazing. I just went in and turned it off. He never moved,” he said wearily.

This gave us an idea. We knew his electric line led to a somewhat informal connection beside that of our next door neighbor and that the breaker was just over our wall. When the music jolted us awake, we would give him a couple of minutes and then go and flick the breaker. The electricity was only briefly interrupted but the tape player shut off. He never once turned it back on. We knew this was violating his freedom to have music whenever and however he wanted and we felt very guilty about it right up until we floated back to sleep. Please don’t tell.

To Each Her Own San Pancho

Seven years ago, when we first had houseguests in San Pancho, I wanted them to enjoy the same things I do about the town. I hoped they’d share my enthusiasm for ranchera music, sidewalk taco stands, and walks in the jungle. I wanted them to be interested in Mexican folk art and history, and to think it was fun to learn Spanish. Not surprisingly, it hasn’t always worked out like that. Our guests have appreciated San Pancho in their own unique ways.

When my 74-year old aunt Nancy visited us she was having problems with memory loss. She was aware of the loss, and it frustrated her. Earlier in her life she had lived in foreign countries and traveled widely, but now a new setting confused her. Our housekeeper’s name, the location of our street -- she struggled to remember, but she just couldn’t. Skip and I tried to make her visit interesting -- we didn’t think with much success -- until the morning we decided to make hot chocolate the old-fashioned Mexican way.

These days hot chocolate is usually made in a blender so it still has the essential foamy topping. But the traditional way is with a molinillo, a hand-carved wooden utensil that looks to me like a child’s top. We had a molinillo on hand, and we wanted to be authentically Mexican, but we had no idea how to use the thing.

Joaquina, our long-time housekeeper, stepped in and gave us a lesson. She and Nancy dissolved disks of Abuelita chocolate -- they look like hockey pucks -- in heated milk. Then Joaquina demonstrated how to rotate the molinillo between the palms of her hands to make the froth on top, the finishing touch. An accomplished cook, Nancy jumped right in and stirred up a batch of hot chocolate. “Molinillos and Abuelita will be the perfect gifts to take home to my kids,” she said. “We’ve got to go shopping.” Language barriers, Joaquina’s deafness, Nancy’s discomfort in a strange place--a lot of things could have gotten in the way that morning, but they didn’t.

Having had a lot of houseguests, I’ve figured out that some people like what I like, and some don’t. Some immerse themselves in the life of the town. Others want to bask in the pool, drink a few margaritas, and catch up on naps. And sometimes guests open my eyes to the small joys -- like making hot chocolate with a molinillo -- of living in Mexico.

Eme's Flan

Emerita Garcia Cervantes makes the best flan in San Pancho, we all say. “Eme” owns and runs Los Delfines Restaurant, a block up from the beach on the town’s main drag and open for supper. When she has a fresh batch of flan for sale, she props a Styrofoam plate against a small potted cactus that sits on a counter. “Hay flan,” the plate reads (There is flan.). Passers-by spread the word.

Eme turns out flan de coco (coconut), de queso(cheese), de café(coffee), and de vainilla(vanilla). Flan de coco seems to be the favorite, given the number of mentions it gets. All of the flans are rich and dense, the batter poured into cunning little tin pans called “flaneras” (yours for $8 in Mexican supermarkets and housewares stores), then steamed in a pressure cooker for an hour.

Eme’s pozole is also renowned. She only offers it on Saturday and Sunday nights, when it’s sometimes SRO at Los Delfines, a.k.a. Eme’s front porch, filled with plastic tables and chairs. Her chicken enchiladas are worth a wait, too; some say they’re the best they’ve ever had. My friend Helen, a New Yorker by way of London, editor at a major women’s magazine, and accomplished cook, visited San Pancho this year and declared Los Delfines her restaurant of choice after sampling meals all over town.

“It’s charming,” she said. “Plus the food is honest, flavorful, and preposterously economical.”

High praise well-earned for Eme, one of the hardest working women in town, whose day job is janitor at the local middle school. She’s a widow who raised two daughters alone, one of whom is just finishing up a university degree program.

Eme is generous, too. She’d be happy to share her flan recipe, she said, when approached by two of my house guests. She suggested we come watch her make it one Saturday morning. Afterward, we paid for her time without her asking. She could offer Mexican cooking classes, one of us enthused. She smiled but didn’t answer. Sure thing, I thought, what with all that extra time you've got.

Eme’s Coconut Flan

-½ cup white sugar

-1 can of condensed milk

-1 can of evaporated milk

-1 cup of whole milk

-5 eggs

-1 generous handful of sweetened coconut

1. Melt the sugar in the flanera, stirring as it liquefies. Coat the sides and bottom of the flanera.
2. Blend the condensed milk, evaporated milk, eggs, and coconut in a blender.
3. Pour the blender mix + the whole milk into the flanera simultaneously (don’t stir together).
4. Seal the flanera with foil; snap on its lid; place in a pressure cooker, and add water to reach half way up the side of the flanera.
5. Put the lid on the pressure cooker; over low flame, cook for 1 hour; remove from the cooker.
6. Cool at room temperature; refrigerate for a day before serving.