Chicken slaughterhouses crown the exit of San Juan market. Brooms are smashed against the pavement to release it from the poultry dirty punishment. The noxious odor transpires; it’s a jumble of warm flesh, cheap soap, chick fat and bloody chicken crests. Heat is not an aid. Sun at 2 pm in Mexico City is criminal. Lunch time: everyone rushes down the street famished.
—Do you know where the pulquería is?— the rumor spreads among the street eaters —all derecho across Calle Aranda number 28, behave yourself güerita!— they bang me with a final advice. “Pulque” is an ancient alcoholic brew made from maguey plant, somewhat like the plant of tequila. Once known as “God’s nectar” by the Aztec it has been rescued from the oblivion caused by beer popularity.
The warm smell of ripe chicken chases me up to Aranda 28. A wooden sign, the name of the tavern: “Las Duelistas”, which means the fighters, also the moaners.
Construction workers are cowboys here. They bump into a pair of western timber gates. Distracted, one of them is slapped in the face by a quick flap. Still outside, murmurs are a hint of a few broken hearts singing; a bolero, a popular Cuban lovesong originally sung Alberto Beltran. The version of our charro Pedro Infante sounds from the jukebox; I prefer the gloomy Beltran. —Sing because she left you compadre!— a man stomps his leaking jar against the tabletop. The song ends in a quiet gasp; youngsters’ rock music replaces it: generational abyss.
“Nacho” beats the fluid robustly, tasters price its viscosity: “the stickier the pulque, the finest!”. —The best cure for corazones rotos! broken hearts— Don Gaby rubs his wrinkled nose —I’ve served this broken heart elixir for 50 years and I know better that the treatment for a heartache is a curado de betabel, hearts need blood to pump again after all that love misery—, explains to a blue man pointing at a red sugar beet pulque. Curado ironically means “healed”.
I stare at its bloodiness… His eyes shoot my curiosity. —Listen—, Don Gaby walks in an aged smooth manner towards the jukebox. The air thickens by a sour taste, everyone becomes aware of it. Golden trumpets, Cuban percussions, downhearted keyboards agitate the sound… a longing recall that frightens less than it numbs: “Though my life perils I’m still searching your love, I’m asking everyone where could I ever find you”. A few smashed hearts hum Beltran’s words. With tiny sips throats seem to choke; is the pain of an ex-lover farewell.
