P10| PURSUITS O THEGLOBEANDMAIL | SATURDAY,FEBRUARY22,2020F
rom the edge of the highway south of Juarez,
the Sonoran Desert runs all the way to the ho-
rizon, impeded only by a few scraggly scrub
bushes. Just to the north in Texas is the big sky
country of cowboy poetry. But here in Mexico, with
an SUV bearing down in my rearview mirror, the
open country suddenly felt like the kind of place
that travel advisories are imagining when they talk
about non-essential trips – especially ones done in a
Subaru with American plates. I locked eyes with my
dog, Tempo, in the passenger seat as the SUV flew
past. Then a pickup blew by and another SUV bar-
reled around us and I realized that the only dubious
thing on the road were the speed limit signs, which
were clearly not meant to be respected. I turned up
the AC and accelerated into the desert sun. I had a
lot to learn about Mexico.
It would be generous to call my plan to drive
south “half-baked.” I was living in Colorado and suf-
fering from the kind of heartbroken angst that
makes you think that a long time on the open road
will help clear your head. When my friend Diego’s
dog had puppies in the spring, he gave me one and
then moved home to Mexico City. I figured that
Tempo would want to see her parents, so I put on
my cowboy boots, tossed a couple cameras in the
car and we started driving. Fortunately, Mexico met
me with her arms wide open.
On that first day, once I recovered from my make-
believe cartel scare, I resolved that I’d have to get
over those stereotypes. Feeling bold, I started look-
ing for breakfast and, a few kilometres later, I pulled
over on the street in bustling Villa Ahumada where
a few guys were selling quesadillas and coffee. I gri-
maced, thinking that my first bite in Mexico was go-
ing to be something off the children’s menu. But,
when I dipped the steaming tortilla and cheese in
creamy salsa with roast jalapenos, my perspective
on Mexican food changed forever. North Mexico is
cattle country, and they are proud of their melty,
nutty asadero cheese, which makes a simple quesa-
dilla an essential pillar of cuisine. I ordered two
more. Driving away, I realized that food would be
my gateway to the country.
Later that week, I pulled into Zacatecas just as the
sun was setting. The core of the city was built in the
16th and 17th centuries when nearby silver mines
reached their peak. With historic churches and
winding alleys lit up in the blue dusk, I felt lost in
time as I walked down the cobblestones. I had let
Tempo run in a park with an ancient aqueduct and,
as she made friends with another dog, I asked the
owners where I could get a quick bite for dinner.
“Gorditas Dona Julia,” was the reply.
I expected tacos, but took their advice. Rounding
a corner, I heard music playing and then caught up
to a parade of antique VW Beetles and children in
skeleton costumes. The Dia de los Muertos (Day of
the Dead) procession led me to the restaurant
where a woman was toasting fat little tortillas on a
comaland then slicing them open to stuff like pita
pockets. A car backfired in the street and everyone
laughed. I had never seen agorditabefore, but I
spooned a spicy green salsa into one filled withchi-
charronesand smiled. Where thin street tacos spill
juices on your plate,gorditasheartily soak up every
drop of flavor. A mariachi band was playing in the
street and vendors were selling decorated sugar
skulls. After another pair ofgorditas, I was ready to
let the spice of dinner lead me out into the streets to
join the party.
Day of the Dead easily stretches into a week of
events and, as I pulled into San Miguel de Allende
the next day, the town was just setting up for their
celebrations around the central Parroquia San Mi-guel Arcangel with its famous pink spires. When I
arrived, I was invited for a drink at the city’s old cav-
alry stable, now home to Casa Dragones tequila
(which Oprah has repeatedly included on her list of
her favorite things). I had a tequila flashback to a
long night, and an even longer next morning, in col-
lege, but how could I refuse a chance to peek inside
this rich slice of Mexico?
I dusted off my boots, put on my best
shirt and followed directions to an intimi-
dating, unmarked wooden gate. A posh
American couple stood outside and at first
we hesitated, unsure what part of the door
we might even penetrate with a knock. But
then, at precisely 6 p.m., the gate opened
and the three of us were gestured into a lush
garden where three stools were set in front
of an antique bar that held three crystal
flutes and a bottle of tequila. The bartender,
Sandra Vasquez, poured us each a dram
that smelled like young grass, fresh herbs
and a dash of spice. The setting felt like a
fantasy version of the country, but taking a
sip of the tequila, I was reminded instantly
that the spirit came from the earth. Unlike
the headache-causing swill I had in school,
this tequila tasted like agave and had as
proud a heritage as any artisanal product in
Mexico. Sandra refilled my glass and served
a little ceviche.
Twelve hundred and fifty kilometres lat-
er, an agave spine dug into my leg. I had on
thick jeans, but still the plant had penetrat-
ed and I could feel blood running down my
sock. Toribio Hernandez laughed at me as
he swung his hoe. Generations of his family
had tended these fields in the mountains of
Oaxaca, planting beans, chilis, squash, corn
and agave together in an ancient, symbiotic,
milpacrop rotation. Toribio’s plants have a
special role in town though, as he works
with three of his relatives to distill mezcal at
a smallpalenqueabove their fields. I ar-
ranged to meet him to learn about the
tough, hands-on process, with the men
working together to harvest agaves, roast-
ing them over a wood fire in a pit, crushing
them with a donkey-driven millstone, fer-
menting the mash in wood tanks and then feeding it
into small copper stills.
After a long day in the fields, one of Toribio’s cou-
sins, Fortunato Angeles, invited me to his house for
dinner. His mother, wife and sister were already in
the kitchen, pressing corn from their fields into tor-
tillas. They put fresh chili paste and steaming bowls
ofpozoleon the table, and we dipped the fresh tortil-
las in the spice and then sopped up a little soup. This
was pure expression of terroir and tradition, with
food fresh from the garden out the window, which I
realized would make most chefs jealous. And it was
nothing like the burritos, chimichangas or flautas
that pass for Mexican food abroad.
Driving out of the mountains, I felt a flutter of
new love in my heart. Tempo’s dog family reunion
had been brief – her dad was recovering from an in-
jury and we had to keep everyone in separate tail-
wagging areas for safety – but she had run free with
strays, made friends with a donkey and now poked
her nose out of the window to soak in the every
ounce of Oaxacan dust. Whatever we had thought
of Mexico before we started driving had been spun
around entirely by friendly hosts and richer flavour
than I ever imagined.SpecialtoTheGlobeandMailLoveat
firstbite
OnaroadtriptoMexico,AlecJacobsonlearnsthatfoodisthesecret
tomakingnewfriendsandgoingbeyondthestereotypesI
am walking down Calle Las Damas, the first
paved street in the Americas, in the Colonial
Zone, a small historic neighbourhood in Santo
Domingo. Its name – Spanish for “Ladies’ street”- comes from the fact that this is where the ladies of
the court of Maria de Toledo, the wife of Diego Co-
lumbus, the son of Christopher Columbus, lived.
I pass by the National Pantheon, where a soldier
in white pants and a blue jacket is watching over the
symbolic flame in what was originally a Jesuit con-
vent and is now a mausoleum where many heroes
of the Dominican Republic are interred.
Following
Columbus
WhenmostCanadiansvisit
theDominicanRepublic,
theymakeabeelineforthebeach.
ButinSantoDomingo,
DaveMcGinndiscoversthe
country’shistoriccharmsFoundedin1848,SantoDomingoisaUNESCOWorldHeritageSiteandhometocountlesshistoric
attractionsincluding(clockwisefromleft):theConsistorialPalaceandMuseum,ParqueColonand
CalleLasDamas,thefirstpavedstreetintheAmericas.ISTOCK/GETTYIMAGES̄½Womaninthestreets
ofSanJuandelRio.
ä½Daylabourerswalkto
workinSanJuandelRio,
Oaxaca,aprimarily
subsistencefarmingvillage.
ß½ToribioHernandezwalks
throughagavefieldsin
SanJuandelRio,Oaxaca.
½PedroReyeswipesthe
sweatfromhisbrowafter
adayofharvestingagave
nearAmatlan,Oaxaca.
}½ArnulfodelosAngeles
andRodolfoHernandezsit
atthepalenquethatthey
sharewithFortunateAngeles
andToribioHernandezin
SanJuandelRio,Oaxaca.
ؽTempo,thewriter’sdog,
peeksoutofthewindowof
apickupwhileAugustin
Guendulainharvestsagavein
Amatlan,Oaxaca.
×½FortunatoAngelesandhis
brother-in-lawRaulMarin
eatpozoleandfreshtortillas
afteradayatthepalenque
inSanJuandelRio,Oaxaca.
Theyshareasmallhomewith
theirwives,JacquelinaAntonio
andMariaElena,Raul’sdaughter,
Alondra,andtheirauntand
uncle,ArnulfodelosAngeles
andTeresaRaymundo.
s½Tempoposesinfront
ofafountaininSanMiguelde
Allende,Mexico.
ALECJACOBSON/THEGLOBEANDMAIL38 71