Holy Guacamole! (29 page)

This should be interesting,
I thought,
if I manage to drive there successfully.
I hung up, went back to the maid’s bath, retrieved and donned my eye patch, and decided that a large denim garden hat might not be the proper headgear for dinner. After ruffling through the hatbox in the hall closet, I selected a wide-brimmed black hat that necessitated changing to a black outfit. Finally, I was ready and drove off to the restaurant, where I found Adela, looking distraught, while her aunt and uncle dipped chips in the excellent chile con queso, the large size, and conversed in Spanish. Introductions were made, the language switched to English for my sake, and Tia Julietta complimented me on my hat, remarking that she herself liked hats because they were dressier for evening and warded off evil spirits that might be lurking above one’s head.

Tio Javier told me to pay no attention to his sister, who clung to all sorts of old-fashioned, supernatural ideas instilled in her at an early age by their
abuela,
a delightful but somewhat crazy old lady, now deceased. I felt as if I’d walked into a scene in a magic realist novel—Isabela Allende or Gabriel García Márquez, neither of whom is Mexican. We consulted our menus. The aunt ordered
Pescado al Mojo de Ajo
, a fish filet in garlic butter; the uncle ordered steak
Tampiqueno
; Adela ordered, at my suggestion, spinach enchiladas, which are
so
very good and have such a lovely, subtle sauce; I tried something new,
Enchiladas de Calebacitas
, Mexican-squash enchiladas. Then we gingerly approached the subject of Adela’s fear of arrest.

“It may be about to happen,” I admitted. “I was at police headquarters this afternoon, giving evidence on a man who may have smothered Adela’s professor, when I heard that the toxicology reports had come in and revealed an unusual addition to the guacamole, which, as you know, Adela made.”

“Why are the police pursuing my niece if her professor died from smothering?” asked the uncle.

“Unfortunately, the sergeant in charge of the investigation does not believe in the smothering theory because it is obvious that something made Professor Gubenko very sick before he died.”

“But you convinced him, no?” said the aunt.

“He wasn’t there. He was out looking for Adela.”

Adela started to cry.

“There, there child,” said Tia Julietta. “There is nothing in your horoscope to suggest that you will be arrested.”

“Julietta,
mia hermana,
this is not a time for horoscopes,” protested Tio Javier. “This is a time for logic. Do you not agree, Senora Azul?”

“Quite possibly,” I agreed, assuming that I was the Senora Azul he had addressed. “A friend with police connections and I have been investigating this death. We talked to the sergeant’s lieutenant, who has promised to look into our suggestions.”

“Well, that is excellent,” said Tio Javier.

Why was I thinking of him as
Tio?
I didn’t speak Spanish, and he wasn’t
my
uncle.

“No sergeant will ignore the wishes of his superior,” said the uncle as he popped a bite of steak into his mouth. “The food here is excellent.”

“It lacks something,” said Aunt Julietta.

“Then don’t add it. We have enough troubles for our poor niece because she listened to you.”

“I do not blame Tia Julietta,” said Adela, who was sniffling over her spinach enchiladas. “I asked for her help, and she gave it.”

“And look what happened,” said the uncle. They fell back into Spanish to argue the matter. I pretended not to notice and occupied myself by admiring the delightful window that decorates the front wall of the restaurant—thick chunks of colored glass set deep in a black, rough-surfaced, flaring frame, which is, in turn, inset in the thick adobe wall. It rather reminded me of the window in the Juarez Cathedral, one side of which has a very modern wall. On the other hand, part of the cathedral is definitely Spanish colonial style, the part that survived an earth tremor, which occurred soon after the structure was finished. I wonder if the parishioners considered that disaster a message from God or a simple misfortune. Whatever they thought, they redid the destroyed part behind the spires with cement blocks and the memorable modern window. Peculiar, but interesting. The old mission sits right beside the cathedral.

I savored my Enchiladas de Calebacitas, which were delicious, the yellow and Mexican squash, the corn niblets, the diced white onion and tomatoes all lightly cooked. The squash and onion were rather crunchy. This concoction was layered and topped with white cheddar cheese between corn tortillas and baked. Adela and her aunt and uncle continued to argue. Now Julietta was shedding tears.

I looked over the new art exhibit decorating the walls—paintings reminiscent of Frida Kahlo’s work. Not only in Kahlo’s style, but some that looked like Frida herself. As far as I know, Frida Kahlo never painted anything but self-portraits. The restaurant paintings, which are for sale and change from time to time, hang on white walls or walls paneled with slanting boards of dark wood. In a place of honor near the cash register, highlighted with an orange arch, is a framed, highly polished frying pan that was the first when the restaurant opened over thirty years ago. The pan has an engraving, thanking the owner’s mother for her help in establishing the restaurant. What a delightful place!

Since the argument at our table was escalating, I said, “Have you noticed these paintings. Very like Frida Kahlo, don’t you think?”

Recipe Strategy

E
vidently Frida Kahlo
had not been a good subject with which to interrupt the family argument.

“Humph,” said Uncle Javier. “
Comunista.
Her and her fat husband. Diego Rivera was a great artist, much admired in Mexico and all over the world, but his politics were quite unacceptable. I am myself a member of the PAN party, which, you may know, has a sensible philosophy on matters economic, which is what Mexico needs. More jobs, more industry, less mordida.”

“PAN isn’t going to keep me out of jail,” said Adela. “I can’t even go home to visit Mama.”

“Of course, you can,” said her uncle. “You just can’t come back.”

“Leaving the country would make Adela look guilty,” said Aunt Julietta. “What is she guilty of? Making an excellent guacamole that did not turn black. I’m sure you noticed that, Senora Azul. By the way, this fish is very tasty. Perhaps you would like to sample it. Adela tells me that you write about food, and arguing with Javier has ruined my appetite.” She transferred a small filet to my plate.

“Blue, Tia. Senora
Blue,
” said Adela. “If your name were Blanco, would you want Americans calling you Senora White?”

“I did notice that the guacamole kept its color,” I interjected and took a bite of the fish after thanking Adela’s aunt. She was right. Very tasty, just slightly crisped, redolent of butter and garlic. “Even after several hours, the guacamole not only stayed green, but also it didn’t get that nasty, rotten flavor. Was that the addition of lime juice? I didn’t notice it in the flavoring.”

“No
limon,
” said Aunt Julietta. “Is my herbs. They keep the avocado fresh. If the professor had not eaten it all, he would not have been sick. Not very sick.”

“So the herb is a preservative?” I asked, seeing a way out of the maze in which Adela found herself.

There was a discussion in Spanish over the meaning of preservative. Then Adela and her aunt agreed that one of the herb’s qualities was the preservation of freshness.

“In that case, I think we should all go to the police station and explain the misunderstanding. We will say that we have heard the sergeant is looking for Adela because of a . . . compound discovered in the guacamole. Then Adela will give him the recipe.”

“It is a family recipe. Mama would not be happy to think I gave it to the police.”

“Your mother will be happier to know that you aren’t going to be arrested.”

“Her mother does not know of that problem, but your reasoning, Senora, is impeccable,” said Uncle Javier.

“Thank you. Then, when he asks about whatever it is that Adela’s aunt gave her, Adela will explain that ingredient is the preservative. If he does not accept that explanation, I will comment on the amazing freshness of the guacamole over such a long period of time. I will ask how to get some of the preservative. Tia Julietta will suggest sources. We will discuss what other preservative uses it might have—such as keeping apples from turning color after peeled and cut.”

“It does not do that,” said Tia Julietta.

“Well, it must do something besides keep guacamole green and cause people to vomit,” I suggested.

“Of course it does,” she agreed.

“Then you can tell me about that in front of the sergeant.”

“Who by then will be very tired of cooking instructions and want us to go away,” said Uncle Javier gleefully. “A splendid strategy, Senora—Blue.”

“But what if he still puts me in jail?” asked the dubious Adela.

“Then I will provide bail and find you a good lawyer,” said her uncle. “However, our family name will be tarnished if you escape to Juarez and the Americans ask for extradition.”

Thus it was agreed, and I, having finished my squash enchiladas and Julietta’s fish, ordered Mexican crepes.