Living and Writing in Mexico

Guanajuato, Enchiladas Mineras (cut and paste the recipe)

Guanajuato, Enchiladas Mineras
Adapted from Eli Guzman-Macpherson’s kitchen
Serves 4

For the sauce:
2 guajillo chiles,* seeds and veins removed
2 ancho chiles,* seeds and veins removed
1 c water
1 clove garlic
1/4 tsp dried oregano
salt to taste

For the enchiladas:
8 small corn tortillas (~6in diameter)
1 c queso fresco (or substitute a very young feta or goat cheese), crumbled
1 small onion, sliced
2 medium gold potatoes
2 medium carrots, peeled
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/4 c white vinegar (or rice vinegar)
4 jalepeno en escabeche [pickled jalepeno], sliced
1/3 c sour cream or creme fraiche (it’s closer to Mexican crema)
1 c green cabbage, finely shredded
2 Tbs lime juice
vegetable oil
salt + pepper

Make the sauce. Heat a heavy pan over medium-low heat and gently toast the chiles for about a minute, turning constantly so they won’t char. Soak the chiles in very hot water for 10 minutes to soften. Puree the guajillos with 1/3 c water until very smooth. Strain through fine wire mesh. Add the anchos, garlic, oregano and remaining 2/3 c water to the pureed guajillos. Blend until smooth and add salt to taste.

Make the enchiladas. Cut the potatoes and carrots into bite-size pieces. In a heavy pan, cover the vegetables with water, add 1 tsp salt and cook until they are just fork-tender (10-15 minutes). Put the vegetables in a bowl of cold water to stop the cooking and stir in the vinegar. Set aside.

Heat a drizzle of oil in a heavy pan over medium heat. Add the cumin and fry for a few seconds until fragrant. Add the onions and a pinch of salt and cook until soft and translucent. Set aside. Toss the shredded cabbage with the lime juice and a touch of salt and set aside.

Heat a teaspoon of vegetable oil over a medium flame. When a drop of sauce sizzles in the oil, thinly coat a tortilla in the sauce (dilute the sauce with a little water if it’s too thick) and fry in the oil for about 30 seconds per side. Spread a generous tablespoon of both the onions and the cheese across the tortilla and roll up to make a loose packet. Repeat with the remaining tortillas and place 2 on each dinner plate. Add more oil to the pan when needed, and scrape and discard any fried tortilla bits to prevent the next one from sticking.

Drain the potatoes and carrots very well. Cover the enchiladas with the vegetables. Fry the remaining sauce in the remaining oil until it thickens slightly and pour over enchiladas. Place shredded cabbage on top, then sprinkle with more of the cheese. Drizzle with sour cream and garnish with the sliced jalapenos.

Becoming a Writer
The Early Years, The Gato Negro

My favorite watering hole in San Miguel these days (1989), is the Gato Negro bar. It’s my favorite for many reasons but especially because I was warmly welcomed by the bar’s owner and his son on my very first visit. At the time my income was very low, and my writing partner, Peyton Breckinridge’s was practically non existent. We were pleased to find a place where we could have an inexpensive drink or two of an afternoon, and not spend all of our time holed up in his place or mine where we collaborated on various writing projects.

Don Gory (short for Gorilla), the owner of the bar, was a stooped over old boxer who had spent his youth, and probably much more as a stevedore, hauling heavy bales of flour, sugar, etc. on and off trucks in a local, over the counter, grocery store by the name of La Balanza. The heavy labor permanently bent his spine slightly, which gave him a gorilla like stance and gait.

His son, El Niño (the boy) a law school graduate, is long haired bohemian, with an appreciation for the arts and artists which abound here in San Miguel. El Niño got his nickname from his early apprenticeship as a gofor in another local cantina named El Infierno. As in, “Boy, go get me some limes,” or “Boy, go get some ice,” etc.

One afternoon, we were having a break in the bar when my friend Peyton became very sleepy. One of the other patrons roused himself from the overstuffed sofa they affectionately called “La Plancha” the morgue slab and stumbled out the door. Peyton, seeing his chance, immediately took his place and stretched out his six foot frame for a snooze. The bar erupted in applause, and the “Gringos” were in.

One of the Gato Negro bar’s nicer touches was a very animated, friendly, black kitten named Tommy. Tommy, like all kittens, was very curious especially about the strange world outside the swinging barroom doors, and the patrons, good naturedly, would take turns shooing him back inside. Well, one day Tommy disappeared, and could not be found. He had been around long enough to have grown-on the bar’s owners as well as the customers, and the bar was plunged into melancholy.

One enterprising fellow, after quite a few tequilas, took it upon himself to put an ad on the local radio station announcing the loss of the kitten and offering a reward for its return.

The ad was supposed to run for one day only, but the radio station having practically no ads lined up, ran it for the whole week. No sooner did it air, but a parade of bums began arriving at the bar carrying cats to claim the reward. Either they couldn’t see, were color blind, or were just trying to show their concern in order to con a free drink for themselves, we’ll never know, but they brought every kind of cat known to man. Big cats, small cats, fat cats, and old cats in all colors of the rainbow. Day and night drunks, their faces, arms, and hands scratched to ribbons, struggled up the street carrying, dragging, juggling their varied asortment of spitting, screaming cats toward the Gato Negro which by now was overrun with hungry felines, who knew a good thing when they saw it, having finished off Tommy’s cat food forthwith.

The well meaning customer who started it all dropped by at the end of the week, when El Niño, armed with a broom and a garbage can lid was busily clearing out the last of the remaining free loaders, and was promptly cleared out himself. The radio station showed up to present their bill for a weeks advertising and was paid off in cats, and Tommy was found in the next door neighbors kitchen, hiding under her rerigerator….

Next I’ll begin posting a series of stories that Peyton and I wrote about this same time, called the It’ll Do. They were accompanied by a series of drawings by Don Carlos. Hope you enjoy them.

Bajada de Salida a Queretaro

Becoming a Writer
The Early years, Ride in the Country

On one of our carousings we met Bob Vinzant, and it was evident
from the first that he was to become a part of our little group.
Bob was from California, a little older, and was much more
sophisticated than we were. He was a college man, and intended to
teach high school English and write on the side. I’ve lost track
of Bob, and other than an incident, about an LSD spiked punch,
which I heard about much later, I never saw or heard of him
again. But he and I had a real adventure together that summer of
1962.

Bob and I decided one day, while we were sitting around drinking
beer, to hire some horses, and ride to the Sierra of Guanajuato which
we could see on the south-western horizon.

There was, at the time, a stable located behind my little
apartment on Codo street. I haggled with the owner, and managed
to convince him to rent us a couple of horses for an entire day.

Being stupid teenagers we set off for the distant mountains with
only the clothes on our backs. No food, no water, just ourcigarettes
and matches.

Not realizing how far it really was… it took us the whole day to reach
the foothills. A drizzling rain had started falling just before dark, and
we took shelter in a shallow cave. The horses huddled together, and
stood outside in the rain all night while Bob futilely tried to light a fire.
Luckily both of us had worn jackets which kept some of our own warmth in
because that was all we had. However, we did managed to sleep some, and
awoke to a glorious dawn. Mounting my horse I really enjoyed the warmth
it provided.

Realizing, of course, that we were in real trouble with the owner of the horses,
but had decided during the night that we might as well enjoy ourselves.
Riding on, up into the mountains, looking for someplace to eat. What we
expected to find I don’t know, but remembering from the day before,
there was nothing back toward home.

After awhile the warmth of the sun allowed us to stop shivering
and we really began to enjoy our adventure. Not having seen
another human being, or motor vehicle in 24 hours or more, it
felt like we had gone back in time to the old west.

Riding uphill through a forest of pine trees their aroma filled the air.
The only sounds we heard were the bird calls and the creaking of our
saddles. Pausing only to carefully light our brown Principe cigarillos
using only one of our dwindling supply of matches we rested. Our
stomachs began to growl, and completely drowned out the bird calls.
We really needed to find some food.

A little further on we came to a village that at our approach
became deserted, the shutters on all the houses slamming shut. We
called out, but nobody showed themselves. We thought it strange,
but decided after awhile that the men were probably all out in
the hills working leaving the women and children alone. After
riding all day and spending the night in a cave we probably
looked pretty rough to them.

Only one woman came out, and in our halting Spanish we asked her
for something to eat, jangling our loose change. “Si, como no,” she said,
and disappeared into her house.

Dismounting, I tied the horses reins to a nearby tree, and sat
down on a large log to wait. Sitting there, smoking more
cigarillos, we looked around at the collection of adobe houses
nestled there in amongst the tall pine trees. The morning
sunlight filtered down through the boughs of the trees in
scattered patches, and we could see rusting tin cans of flowering
plants all around the little houses. It was a beautiful, peaceful
scene.

Gradually, a few women, huddled in rebozos, came out of the
houses, and began tending to their chores only occasionally
glancing in our direction. We waited quite awhile, worrying that
maybe the woman hadn’t understood us, but could see and smell
wood smoke coming from her abode house.

At last she emerged carrying two, large clay bowls, and she served us,
sitting on the log, a dish we would later come to know as menudo. A
tripe stew with lots of onions and chilies, accompanied by lots of
blue, freshly made tortillas. A meal fit for a king!

Warmed and sated with the delicious food we began to ready
ourselves to ride back to San Miguel thinking to head back
using the paved San Miguel-Celaya highway as a guide, but to
our inquiries for the highway, la carretera, we were directed to
a donkey path instead. That was their idea of a highway! It
was headed in more or less the right direction so off we went.

Riding on, through beautiful wooded country with grassy meadows that
bordered, in places, on wild rocky cliffs that dropped off into deep
chasms…it made my skin crawl to look down into them. We carefully
steered our horses to the far side of the path, as far away from the edge
as we could get. Slowly descending out of the high mountains into the
foothills we were finally able to relax a bit.

During this long ride, and coming to know our mounts a little, we
had noticed that my horse refused to let Bob’s horse pass him. Finding
that amusing, Bob kept trying to sneak by me. Each time he tried my
mount would charge ahead flailing its head, nostrils flaring and cut him
off. He was really serious about it.

Coming to a small, shallow stream that ran with cold clear water
and we dismounted to take a drink. It was very refreshing and
tasted a little earthy. Scooping out some holes that quickly
filled with water so the horses could take a drink too, we
spent some time there lying on the grassy bank in the warm
sunshine. The horses grazed a little, we couldn’t imagine how
with bits in their mouths, but we didn’t dare take the bridles
off because we had no idea how to put them back on again, and
feared losing the horses entirely.

I know some of you horse lovers are furious at the way we treated
those fine animals, but remember I said we were stupid teenagers,
didn’t I?

Riding on, using the soft mud of the little stream to cushion our ride,
Bob began his little game again of trying to pass us. Gradually speeding
up until we were riding at full gallop down the gradual slope of a hill
until coming to a curve Bob’s horse slipped in the mud, and went down,
dumping Bob into the muddy water. Luckily Bob kept a hold of the reins
and was able to keep the horse from bolting off. He was unhurt, except
for his ego, and we stopped for awhile to calm the horses down.

We had lost the path a long time back, but could tell we were
heading in the right direction even though there was no sign of San
Miguel. Gradually we came down out of the hills onto flat land, and
riding all the rest of the day finally reached the outskirts of San Miguel.
It was twilight by then, and we clip clopped along the cobblestone streets
practically unnoticed by pedestrians (mounted riders were pretty common
back then).

Making our way along with the dim street lights barely illuminated by
small wattage bulbs over a few of the doorways, we finally arrived at
the door of the stable on Tenerias street.

The owner of the horses was fit to be tied, and only after handing over
all the money we had with us were we able to get out of there alive!

Callejon La Garza

Guanajuato, Festival Cervantino

Present Day – Guanajuato, Festival Cerventino

Excerpts from my “Walking Tours of Guanajuato.”

Walking Tour of Guanajuato: City of Cervantes
Guanajuato is one of the Mexican cities which have best preserved their own peculiar spirit, and in consequence, their authentic stateliness.
Introduction to Guanajuato
“Nature made this corner of México one of magnificence. Its indescribable dynamism fills all who see it with wonder and enjoyment. And it gives one an uneasy sensation: that of the intense power of geology over the stupendous and rugged landscape.” Esteban A. de Varona

The city, approached by road, is completely concealed in a long deep valley until the last turn in the road when suddenly you’re on one of the busiest thoroughfares (there are only three) of Guanajuato.

The mountains to the north are Los Cerros del Cuarto. Due south, across town from them (statue of Pipila) is the San Miguel mountain. On the east are Los Timultos, and northeast the Mellado, Valenciana, and Cata. The Guanajuato River, with its tributary, the Cata, flows underground mostly, and completely follows the length of the city.

Almost at once you may realize, there is no geometry or coherence here. It is a confused capricious huddle of tunnels, narrow streets, innumerable alleyways, and steep winding stairways. The houses crowd together at varying heights in a Moorish conglomeration, a “Casbah.” It is one of the most spectacular cities in America. (And there’s NO place to park!)

As the famed Mexican author, Esteban A. de Varona, said,
“One should always go to Guanajuato with the spirit of a pilgrim, to live the emotion of its poetry, to receive the confidence of its uneasiness, to hear its eloquent and dramatic silence, in a peaceful [early morning] stroll through the city. Here everything is almost intact. It has survived the remote time of its wonderful past.”

Guanajuato is filled with many popular legends, and linked these days with Miguel de Cervantes, romantic Quixote spirits, and the Festival Cervantino (a yearly festival of music and dance).

A fable persists that on the nights of full moons a side door of a house on Baratillo Square opens and in a spectacular manner and suddenly, out comes a strange carriage, drawn by two frisky horses of a diabolical aspect, shedding fire from their eyes and froth from their nostrils. Winged spirits of a exceedingly repugnant aspect help to push the two hind wheels of the sloven vehicle.

A thunderous noise proceeds from the carriage as it stampedes down the street, the hoofs of the horses striking sparks from the stones of Sopeña street.

A cloud smelling like sulfur envelopes the coach carrying a suffering spirit incorporated in a skeleton and covered in a white shroud, furiously lashing the horses with a whip which it brandishes in its right hand, cracking it with a deafening noise.

Perhaps, it is said, it’s Don Melchor Campuzano, who before his death became a terrible miser, looking for the forgiveness of the divine will.

Guanajuato, Festival Cervantino