The story of us: Gorditas and Coca-Cola

Margot Castañeda

He always ate fast. Fast like Goku, focused, cheerful, paying attention to his plate –and sometimes mine. I learned to move my portion of shared meals away from him, otherwise I would end up with just one mouthful, if any. Like me, he also ate with his hands and without guilt –one more thing we had in common from our past, thick as string.

I remembered this yesterday when I was walking through the lively, the busy, the noisy streets of La Guerrero up to the corner of Zarco and Sol. Then I saw the scene from my navy blue chair on the sidewalk, under the harsh 2 pm sun, while my order arrived. Some time ago I thought those streets were pretty. Yesterday they looked ordinary. Dirty.

My plate arrived and the memories started flowing like thick milk, little by little, sloppily. It’s possible that what I’m telling today is a lie because this story –the story of him and me– has had endless versions, drafts and rewritings over thirteen years. Wow, is it really 2019? It has been thirteen years since I first came to Carnitas Rigo. Thirteen years ago I ate my very first gordita de chicharrón. Thirteen years ago I landed my gaze on his sleepy eyes, and I left it there for ten years.

~

When we got to his house, around 7 pm, I found it weird that the kitchen wasn’t hectic. No one was chopping vegetables nor frying meat, no one was making dressing for a salad. We were eighteen years old, we were a couple with honest hearts, and he had invited me to dinner with his mom and brother. I got there wearing a dress and my best shoes. I was expecting tablecloths, wine glasses, and guests-only china. He welcomed me wearing jeans, barefoot, with a grease-stained brown paper bundle of who knows what, and a 2 liter Coca-Cola. Later I found out that love sometimes comes that way: hidden in a greasy package that is offered to you as an unexpected present.

These are the best ones around, they told me. You’re gonna love them. My throat clenched when I saw on my plate a thick-masa gordita, fried, stuffed with carnitas, and a greasy red paste that smelled of pork. It’s chicharrón prensado, he said. Carnitas, of course I know them, I said, but I had never eaten chicharrón prensado. Nor a gordita. Wow, what a nice surprise.

It was true. My mom was the type of mom that never bought garnachas for dinner. Or for breakfast or lunch. Yes, every once in a while, a couple of Sundays a year, we were allowed to eat tlacoyos or barbacoa… but gorditas? fried? stuffed with what did you call it? I was raised on the idea that fried stuff was the devil and street food was dangerous and it was best to avoid them God knows what kind of water they use to wash the vegetables, let’s just go home and eat some soup. Let’s not even talk about Coca-Cola. Banned from the household. I just want some water, I said, although I drank the soda in his glass, and he filled it as many times as was necessary. He did it that night and the rest.

I ate two gorditas. My plate was clean by the end. I used the bits of meat that spilled over to clean the spots of salsa verde, raw and thick, and salsa roja, spicy as fuck. It was happiness. I got rid of the shackles. I was free from the chain gang. And after that dinner in Tlatelolco, it was easy for me to go back to gorditas and any other fried foods. And to him.

~

During that first stage, there were a lot of drunk days filled with clichés. When school was over, we went to his house. Sometimes we hid under his blue sheets, tore off our clothes, and lost control of time. Other times we went to Las Américas. The motel was on the same street as his house, and, at first, I was scared his mom would walk past and see us going in or out. The shame washed away later and I showed our relationship boldly, like a neon-colored shirt.

We bought cheap wine, got drunk, and fucked. We were eager to know each other better. The following day, under the uncertain midday light filtered by thick curtains, we repeated the love we had made, and we left when someone knocked on the door telling us our time was over.

Then we walked to Zarco and Sol. We sat on navy blue chairs on the sidewalk to eat those glorious gorditas with carnitas and chicharrón prensado –and lime, thick salsa verde, spicy-as-fuck salsa roja, a little bit of onion, fresh cilantro. I ate mine by pinching it –I loved the feeling of grease spreading onto my fingers– and he devoured them, fast like Goku. One Coke and one water, please, we said, even if we knew that I would end up drinking his Coke and he would have to order another one.

When we said goodbye, it was always with a long, fertile hug, and I would think of the time we were going to do this again. That was love to me: impatiently waiting for the next day.

~

I don’t know if Rigo’s gorditas were special in this story –the story of him and me. Maybe they weren’t. It’s possible that in ten or five or three or seven years we ate them dozens of times or hundreds of times or just a couple of times. I don’t know.

Yesterday while I pinched my gordita especial (45 pesos, for here), I had the feeling that those memories don’t belong to me. I never went back to Rigo, nor to the blue sheets of his bed in Tlatelolco, nor to Las Américas with its thick curtains. I borrowed all of that, but it isn’t mine.

“Those gorditas really are fucking delicious,” I texted my best friend. And yes, yes, of course they are. They’re properly fried but they don’t drip oil. Some parts of the masa are crunchy and noisy, other parts are soft and comforting. The carnitas come in a surtido mix. You’ve heard of that, right? Big chunks of maciza and fatty skin scattered around. The chicharrón prensado is strong and salty and delicious.

I never thanked him for this present, this priceless street knowledge. I hadn’t acknowledged that it was him that taught me how to eat real street food. Until yesterday. And I ordered a Coca-Cola for myself, too.~