When Carlos mentioned that name, I didn’t realize it at first. Until we started walking through the streets of Oaxaca: he bought twenty pesos worth of tortillas in the market while I went back to snacking on a small pile of grasshoppers that I still had left in the small plastic bag. And there, on the corner of 20 de Noviembre streets and Nuño del Mercado streets, the long line that went around the block made me remember who was that lady from Oaxaca whom I had never seen but whom I had already seen. knew.
One of the nicest things about travel writing is that you meet many inspiring people along your way. There we have Creus, a squid fisherman who still descends with his peixquera – a platform made of reeds – down the cliffs of Alicante’s Xàbia. To Lily, a Swiss woman who makes goat’s milk cheeses in the town of Tibi; a coconut tree climber in Kerala called Mini; the taxi driver who wanders every morning between the Cartagena de Indias bus station and the old town; Mrs. Nguyen and her rich cao l?u from Hoi An. And also, Brígida Manzano Rincón, alias La Chinita.
Brigida and I had never met before but we had spoken on the phone. It was in May 2020, in full confinement. I had been commissioned to write an article about the situation of street food vendors in the precarious times of Covid-19 and Brígida was a treasure to be revealed, as Netflix had included her in the episode about Mexico of the documentary series Street Food, which is still It had not been released.
Brígida told me by phone that things were difficult due to the security measures and the health deployment to avoid infections. These were not good times to sell food on the street but, even so, many people came to buy their tlayudas despite the masks and restrictions, like a kind of gastronomic gymkhana. And not everyone can live without La Chinita and its tlayudas, a typical Mexican dish that consists of a corn cake spread in pork fat and filled with various appetizers such as vegetables, spicy chilies and meat – a choice between chorizo ??or beef. .
When Carlos took me to the La Chinita stand, I recognized her instantly and, in the middle of the crowd, I approached to greet her and show her the article I had been a part of three years before. “Of course I remember mijo, but that was a long time ago, eh?” She told me, with the energy typical of those Mexican women who seem to talk to the moon and have grown up among legendary markets and pots full of secrets.
After the hug, I decided to try the tlayuda, crunchy, abundant, creamy. When I finished devouring it sitting in a doorway next to Carlos, amid echoes of ranchera and street noise, I wanted to return to say goodbye, but the people formed a great fortress. I stayed looking for the last time at the stand, overflowing with people, with the future. I thought she would be too busy, but the gazes danced for a moment and La Chinita, with a furtive smile, confirmed it to me. Everything was already fine.
