When I want to fall in love I go to Mercado La Viga.  Because there are fish guts on the floor and the sweet scent of questionable oil penetrates, infiltrates, becomes you, I fall in love.  It’s not the quantity of fish that gets my heart rat tat tatting, no, I am a market veteran and I’ve seen plenty more.  I’ve lived Mercado de la Venta in Madrid, Spain, where three floors-worth of fish and seafood beckons you.  This can’t stand a flame next to that kind of seafood seriousness.  Mercado La Viga in Mexico City is only eight or ten aisles worth at most…maybe.  What gets you skipping (over the fish guts) are the ‘restaurants’ lining the outskirts of the vender’s stalls.

The ladies and gentlemen of these establishments stand vigilant, peering in and out of the aisles and beckon you:

“Empanadas empanadas empanadas de cazon, de pulpo, de pescado, los camarones camarones, sopa de marisco fresco fresco fresco vengan señores vengan!”

I hear their call and I am in a trance.  I don’t even want to buy fish. I want to eat.

Husband is a willing partner-in-crime and together we pick the perfect dirty neon orange plastic chairs to sit in and be served.  Mind you, there is dirt.  Flies.  Questionable open spicy containers on the table.  I could get violently ill.  There’s no joking around when it comes to seafood.  But I see the lady frying my empanadas right in front of me.  I see the family of four slurping their piping hot soups (‘oh my  what soup is that I must have it’, I demand to Husband).  And everyone looks so happy. And safe.  And content.  And even though I am the only blue-eyed fair-skinned guerita around, I am one of them, I know I am one of them and nothing will happen but good things, nothing but good.  So the waiter senses my longing to fit in and willingly complies.

‘Sopa de mariscos,’ he proclaims, when I ask about the family dish.

‘Empanada de pulpo,’ octopus empanada, he promises me when I point at the lady frying with a smile.

‘Tostada de ceviche de pescado,’ he repeats, when I order on impulse a favorite.

Husband smiles and meekly nods his head.  He is enamored by this seafood-madwoman.  He digs me like this.

And together we quietly wait.

The empanada arrives first.  The one stuffed with octopus.  It’s like no other empanada I’ve had before.  The Mexicans have managed to Mexicanize it and raise my expectations of this stuffed fried patty to a whole new level.  Now I am doomed.  Every other empanada I have will never live up to this one.  I know it.  They have just ruined me.

It is sliced.  Sliced!  An empanada (my first traditional thought of course being, how dare they slice an empanada)!

But no. These guys are pros. They know what they are doing.  They have sliced it, allow the rich broth of octopus and tomatoes to steam and they have placed thick slices of creamy avocado, spicy pickled onion and aromatic cilantro inside. Then a hefty dollop of mayonnaise seals the deal.  They have done this brilliantly and these flavors are all having a party before they’ve reached my mouth.  I can splash some spicy sauce on if I care to, there are several bottles to choose from.  Or a squeeze of lime- a prerequisite plastic bowl filled with eager juicy limes sits on my table.  Or add more chopped raw onion.  The choices are endless.  The power is mine.  See why this is love?

And we are quiet, Husband and I.  Because these flavors require us to be so.  We are dazzled with each bite.  Empanada quickly goes.  Tostada de ceviche wolfed down too.  And then the soup arrives- exploding with the seafood we quickly visited in the stands moments before.  It is sublime.  We are stuffed beyond recognition and then I see a tiny, dented cardboard sign swinging in the wind… what is that it reads?

Husband looks worried and excited.  There she goes again, he thinks to himself.  I know that spark in her eye, he assures himself.  He is falling in love with me all over again.
“Cocazo de camaron?” I question out loud, and instantly, it is mine.  The waiter says it will soon be mine- shrimp doused in shredded coconut and deep fried. Just minutes away.  Minutes is all we have to reboot our brains to eat more.  And we wait. We are stuffed but eagerly, excitedly, we wait.

And when the cocazo de camaron arrives, it too changes us forever.  It will become the highlight of the day.  The essence of this seafood extraordinaire moment.  These are no ordinary shrimps. These babies are on steroids- about 5 inches long and coated in freshly shredded coconut (this is no packaged coconut stuff, this is the real deal.) They are delicious on so many different levels I feel dizzy just savoring them.  Fresh ocean, sweet water, crunch coconut.  I am in love.

The family of four looks at us and smiles.  We’ve ordered triple what they have but our grins are all the same.  We share this moment on plastic chairs, dirty floor and delicious seafood.  I pull off the last head of my shrimp and ram its sweet body in my mouth.

“Buen provecho,” the matriarch of the group blesses me with good appetite, making me feel like one of her own as I chomp away.  “Buen provecho.”

Rich hues of purple beckon me.  The market in Mexico is full of colors today:  fire orange for zucchini blossoms, crimson red endless mounds of tomatoes, and rich coal-colored piles of avocados that promise a buttery light green inside.  I could gather them all and on most days I do, but today I go for the eggplants- they are the perfect size- nothing too pretentiously large, smooth and shiny with a dark skin as mysterious as the pond in Vermont I’d dive into freely as a child.  These babies are mine.  Today I will make them shine.

I take them home – just two is all I need, and the ritual begins. It is a slow process- I must gently char the outside over my beloved gas stove.  Easing in the smoke that will give my dish its distinctive flavor.   My son watches me in awe and confusion. I am doing exactly what I tell him not to do. I am playing with fire.  But this is different, I guarantee him.  This is aubergine and I am making babaganoush- a favorite Middle Eastern dish of smoked eggplant to be scooped with my freshly baked pita awaiting.

He isn’t buying what I am selling.  The smooth plum-colored skin is getting withered and cracked.  Its hue turning a tarnished black.  Chips of burnt skin fall off revealing a scarred cream interior oozing with shock.  This can’t be good, my son thinks.  This can’t be good.

But I promise him it is, and a mother’s promise is not taken lightly.  I will crush and mince fresh garlic, squeeze tart lime and sprinkle coarse salt and add it to this mix and this will be good. This will be so good.  Like your grandfather’s father ate in the dusty hills of Palestine before there was a state of Israel.  Like your father enjoys on a lazy Sunday afternoon.  This will be good. I will take this withered warrior of an eggplant and make a hero out of it.  I will slice it in half and gently scoop out the smoked pulp.  It will give to my spoon and splat out onto my bowl.  It will look ordinary but it will taste extraordinary.  The flame I’ve gently subjected it to has left it with a magical smoky taste.  And it will dance with those three simple ingredients. If I feel frisky I will drizzle some extra virgin olive oil (like a good Middle Eastern, this is reflex) and my fresh pita will scoop up this goodness and know something else is missing.  One other ingredient I dare have forgotten.

Chopped parsley.

Finely minced.  So as not to interrupt but to add a spicy bite.  Another reflex a sabra’s daughter ought never forget.

And it will be perfect. It will dance in your mouth and your mind will beg for more, your stomach content and dazzled.  All this over purple shine and blurry black and white photographs of forefathers and more forefathers – all of which shared this dish that today, my son, you share.  In the crowded city of Mexico you are instantly at that dusty hill in Eretz Israel.  What a drizzle of olive oil, a squeeze of lime, and an eggplant can do.  I promise you.  I promise you.

It is impossible to lose weight in Mexico.  I’ve tried all sorts of things: increase salad intake, exercise regularly, ignore tight pants.  But the food here is too delicious:  it draws you in like a good book you never want to put down.  You cannot put down.  And so I’ve learned to live with tight jeans and I run the extra mile so that the guilt is less, or the appetite is more, I don’t know anymore.

There’s a simple dish that’s captivated my heart. It is given to all the children in Mexico as a staple side dish.  Some folks go for rice, in Mexico, it’s Fideos Secos.  They are tiny pasta pieces- think vermicelli chopped into ½ inch pieces.  But where one would suffice with butter and salt for these babies, the Mexican’s take it to the umpteenth of flavor:  slowly cooking them in a beef and tomato broth that gently is absorbed in each tiny noodle, packing it with a rich meat and tangy tomato punch.

That would make me happy.  Just writing about it already does.  But this is not enough for a Mexican palate, not even a child’s.  It is missing its crown, a crown often worn in Mexico cuisine:  thick slices of creamy avocado, followed by a drizzle of cream and strips of the irreplaceable Oaxaca cheese.  Now the dish is complete.  Rich, comforting, and truly Mexican, I could eat bowlfuls of this for supper.  But wait, it is only a side dish.  More goodies await.  Waistline sighs.  Soul smiles.

Puddles of red velvet cake cookies swell in the small, yet expensive oven.  “Oooh, you have a Mabe,” all the upper-class Mexican housewives crooned when I first moved here and showed off my kitchen and apartment.  “Nothing but the best, Mabe,” they continued, reasserting my ignorance on the subject of Mexican kitchen appliances.  I’ve heard of General Electric, KitchenAid, Viking and Dacor but Mabe, whose name screams out the fear, “maybe???” Never.

Mabe and I weren’t friends from the get go.  She was too small.  Too simplistic.  Too foreign.  Fahrenheit was out the window, Mexico being a Celsius land,  I had to contend with the concept of baking in unknown numbers.  I felt like a lonely American.  Luckily, there are all sorts of apps for lonely Americans and Kitchen Converter is no doubt a very popular one.

Next, there was turning the darn thing on!  In the States, with my uber-spacious Dacor oven, all I had to do was turn the lever and, voila!  Beauty will beep when reached the appropriate Fahrenheit temperature!  With Mabe I encountered a whole other beast:  the gas beast.  I had to have the building’s maintenance man, Javier, come show me how it’s done.  Mabe wouldn’t come to life for me and I was positive she was broken.

Javier dutifully arrived in his navy blue jumpsuit and his friendly smile and didn’t even give me the courtesy of tinkering with his accomplice.  Mabe just turned on straight away.

“How’d you do that?”  I demanded, slightly hurt and fully shocked.

“Just like this,” he patiently showed me, turning Mabe on again.

I felt frustrated that the oven responded to him and not to me.

“Just leave the door ajar for five minutes before you close it.  That way it will be sure not to go off,” Javier instructed, making me realize the trick to the gas oven.

“Ahhhh, the door has to be open for the oven to ignite,” I declared unintelligently.

Javier stared.  I think it was polite pity that cast over his face.

“Si, señora,” he answered dryly.

So Mabe and I were off to a bumpy start but I didn’t lose faith either way.  I was an avid baker in Florida and I’d continue to do so in Mexico City, Mabe by my side.  We were going to have a beautiful relationship, whatever the price.

The price took several burnt cakes, several flattened cakes, several undercooked cakes, and several stuck and smeared cakes.  I can’t particularly pin the blame solely on Mabe; after all, I am living in Mexico City, which boasts an altitude of  7,349 feet.  Baking gets wacky and frazzled way up here.  But as the proud and stubborn baker that I am, I can proclaim, as my red velvet cake cookies puff gently inside Mabe’s tender embrace, that the road is getting less bumpy and more and more tasty.

A pair of tight ass jeans clings to this gut, swollen in delight and trepidation.  I came to Mexico to cook but all I do is eat.  An angel has descended upon my shores:  she is sweet and frail and oh so quiet.

Oh so quiet.

She is, as it turns out, a chef.  A chef willing and dying to please.  Me.  Her señora, as she calls me.

I am in luck.

I am in awe.

I am totally beside myself.

Out from the pristine kitchen (she keeps this way) come fabulous combinations of her native Mexico:  chiles en nogada, fideos secos (served with ripe avocado and a drizzling of crema), sopa de Nogales, sopes, and tinga.  I eagerly eat it all in glee and she quietly (for she knows no other way) awaits my response, my reaction, my amazement, which always feels understated in the enormity of flavors I dance in.

The other day she produced a soup of warm, green silk.

“What is this?” I asked, bemused and excited.

“Sopa de Aguacate,” she muttered, altering my crusted vision of avocado being only a salad item.  “Espero le guste, mi señora” she continued, thirsty for my approval.

The bowl was licked clean in a matter of minutes, its content once filled with elegance, creaminess, and intoxicating delight.  I asked for more and got some, all the while cursing my taste buds for being so alert (this will definitely cost me on the jean-tightness factor…) The soup was divine, delicious, memorable, enjoyed in the peace and quiet and cleanliness that realms in my Mexico home these days.  We are both pleased with each other.  My enemy remains a pair of stubborn jeans.