By Abe Villarreal
Where I live, most people eat Mexican food. There are other kinds of foods to choose from, but Mexican food is usually the first, second, and last option.
I used to quibble with my not-so-Mexican friends about the authenticity of the dishes in each of the towns I have lived. The taste of the beans. The fluffiness of the rice. The color of the red or green sauce. Whether an egg should be on an enchilada or not. I'm sure I sounded like a food snob. Then, one day, I realized that none of it mattered.
An older woman at a food stand in a small town in the State of Sonora smiled at me as I stood to see what she was cooking and selling. Her hair pulled back, wrinkled face, and a few missing teeth. She stretched the tortillas from one hand to the other. She had a pot boiling on one of those makeshift burners connected to a propane tank. Her counter was nearly filled with diced veggies of all colors.
Then, there's that one sense that is the most difficult to describe – the smell in the air. It's a mixture of what she's cooking and what's around her. The dirt roads. The tire shop nearby. The traffic. The hot air. The town itself. Each town has its own smell.
When I asked her what kind of tacos she was serving, she went through a longer list of options than I expected. Somehow, she had everything one could offer in her little stand. Tacos de cabeza, de carne asada, de lengua, de frijol, tacos de desebrada, and more. The way she made each one sound made it hard to select. You can't teach her style of communication in marketing school.
There were no chips and salsa before you ate. No colorful images on walls of boys playing guitars or pretty ladies dancing with flowers in their hair. No TV set hanging above you or corner stage for karaoke.
Where I sat, outside, on a hot day with no air conditioning or shade, was what reminded me of what Mexican food is all about. The three-ingredient salsa. The aguas, or waters, in large open containers filled with ice. The older woman doing what she has done for all her life.
Rice and beans weren't offered on the side because it didn't need it. The lady didn't ask if I wanted it on corn or flour tortillas because that wasn't an option. There wasn't sour cream or a hot and mild version of salsas. This was the kind of place where simplicity made the dish. You got what you got.
I don't think I have to describe the amazing taste of the food. How it was different than you expected but everything you wanted. How I left the place knowing that I wouldn't have tacos like those again until I made it back to her stand, on that road, in that small town in Sonora.
That's what Mexican food is all about. It's about it being something different to all of us. It's about how authenticity can be found in any town, in any place, and cooked by anyone. It's about what we grew up eating and what reminds us of our pastimes.
When I left the old lady's stand, she gave me a hug and told me to go with God. Even though she knew she'd probably never see me again, she looked at me like she had known me forever. I felt like I knew her for a long time, too. I'd like to believe that I'll be back there one day. Enjoying the same tacos, outdoors, on a hot day in the sun.
A good Mexican dish does that to you. It makes you believe in something.
Abe Villarreal writes about the traditions, people, and culture of America. He can be reached at
