The Cantegrill Restaurant, at 111 Nazas where my grandparents' house once stood in Cuauhtémoc, Mexico City
A small bite of ropy, liposuctioned pork chop purchased from the newly remodeled Emilio’s (no longer run by Emilio) outside the California El takes me back to dinner at my grandparents’ in Mexico City circa 1968.
I am the last one at the table. The grown ups sip coffee in the living room and my sisters and cousins are watching Astro Boy take on another slew of alien invaders in the small TV room across the hall. An unsavory piece of meat with the consistency of cud is lodged between my gum and cheek. Every so often I squeeze and suction the saliva that accumulates, but I can’t bring myself to swallow the sinewy ball. My grandmother and the servant girl swish in and out clearing the table. My grandmother monitors the lump in my cheek with amusement. In her Depression era influenced version of the world, there is no connection between bad food and dysphagia.
Before every meal we bring palms together, bow our heads and regurgitate, “Thank you, Papa Dios, for this food we are about to receive even though we are undeserving. Amen.” Food is a cold, scientific fact of life for for my grandmother. You need it to live and you can't allow taste buds to jeopardize your chances for nourishment. This very instant, there are children in other parts of the world that would give anything for that piece of meat clumped in your mouth. Yes, even for that cold, wet, insipid wad of flesh. Here, as at home, the rule stands: no one leaves the table without cleaning the plate. That includes swallowing. My grandmother sees the bulge still in my cheek and cackles; the servant girl smiles compassionately.
My parents must be out of town; we’re sleeping over. From the bed I share with my sister, I spy on my grandmother as she undresses in the dark with her back turned to us. The gleaming white slip is replaced by a cotton nightgown with a speed not even Astro Boy could match. I hear the oceanic roar of the city, a car turning from Poo onto Nazas, the hurried steps of a woman on heels. I can’t remember ever swallowing that ball of meat. The last sound as I drift off is the calliope of a sweet potato vendor heading south towards Reforma Avenue.
