Lesley Tellez

Mexico City’s bustling subway economy

July 21, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Back when Crayton and I rode the subway all the time — we’ve ridden less since moving into our apartment — we wondered about the merchants in the subway cars. There’s always one on board, trying to sell you Kleenex, pens, DVDs. But how was it that no two vendors ever sold in the same car, at the same time? And how could a merchant know that the guy before him wasn’t just selling his exact same product?

Turns out reporters at El Universal were wondering this, too, and they wrote a long, fascinating piece on the subway merchants in Sunday’s paper. The tone seemed a little classist at times, almost making the vendors sound like human oddities. (One passage described in detail what clothes the merchants wear, with the lead-in, “It’s easy to identify them…”) But overall I was pretty amazed at what the reporters found out: These guys have their own loose unions, and they charge pricey fees to join. To sell on Línea 2, for instance, it’ll set you back 4,000 pesos, or the equivalent of $300 dollars.

And the vendors are fiercely protective of their turf. If an outsider tries to squeeze his way in, dudes will start whistling — they have their own secret whistling codes — and alert the subway police, who will then impose a fine. (Selling isn’t technically a crime; more like an administrative misdemeanor.)

Isn’t that crazy?

A few other highlights from the story:

*Subway vendors make, on average, between 250 and 300 pesos a day. (This is between $15 and $23 USD.)

*Among the unwritten vendor laws: They’re not allowed to sell while drunk, or blast their music on the subway platform

*On Línea 2, the vagoneros, as the merchants are called, used their positions in a recent political campaign, drumming up support for Iztapalapa candidate Clara Brugada.

Basically, the vendors are stuck in a weird kind of limbo, because they’re not technically sanctioned or regulated by the city. And for riders it’s not entirely the best situation either. If a vendor is blasting loud music directly into your ears — who among us has had that happen? — the Metro police can fine the guy, but that won’t necessarily make him turn it down.

Interestingly, the vendors say they have every right to be there, because they’re earning a living. From the story:

“The Metro police are supposedly there to take out robbers, assaulters and marijuana addicts,” said one man, who has sold sweets for six years in the subway cars. “But with us they want to take away our work. Imagine the day in which there aren’t any vagoneros. What are people going to eat?”

Blueberry oat scones

July 20, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

In an unexpectedly Mexican turn of events, I’ve become addicted to having something sweet and bready with my coffee in the morning. Mamey muffins, which might be the world’s most perfect coffee food, pushed me over the edge. Since then I’ve dabbled in walnut-raisin bread, cornbread smeared with butter, unleavened cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting, carrot spice muffins and, the most boring of them all, whole-wheat toast with honey. (Mamey, don’t worry, I’m coming back for you.)

Last week — finally succumbing to my addiction, and telling myself, “It’s okay if I just have a little bit, and then run for 45 minutes at the gym” — I made scones for the first time. These babies are dangerous: heavy cream in the batter. Little cold cubes of butter in there, too. And a sprinkling of turbinado and oats on top.

After licking every tidbit of batter of my mixing spoon, and immediately washing the bowl as to not tempt myself further, I stuck the little mounds of dough in the oven and waited. They emerged buttery and warm, and crisp on the outside, with just a hint of sugar. I ate a whole one and was moving onto a second before I literally had to tell myself: Lesley. No. Put the scones away.

In my Breakfast Bread Hall of Fame, these scones are in the top three. Threatening mamey muffins with a bullet.

Here’s the recipe, in case you’re hungry for a sweet thing in the morning, too.
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The low-rider pesero

July 17, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Yesterday some girlfriends and I had coffee in Polanco, and we decided to take a pesero home. I love taking peseros — they’re the rumbly, green-painted mini-buses that go everywhere in the city, usually for around four pesos. Since the routes aren’t mapped anywhere, you usually have to ask the driver, “Oiga! Van por…?” if you want to get to the right spot.

Jesica asked, and we ended up on the side of Presidente Masaryk, waiting. (As a sidenote, pesero knowledge is valuable stuff, and exchanged among my car-less Roma and Condesa friends like a good taxi service number. If someone knows of a neighborhood pesero that stops at a major location, like the Centro or Polanco, this fact is discussed and shared.)

After a few minutes of waiting, a pesero rolled up, but it wasn’t like any pesero I’d ever seen before. It was lowered. And boxy, like a Toyota Scion. Cheap black tinting film covered half the windows. The drivers-side door opened — squeeeeak — and reggae, the kind I’ve heard at Kaya, wafted out, the bass booming. The three of us girls exchanged looks (whaaa?) and got on. You have to get on quickly, or else the driver will hit the gas and you’ll end up half-hanging out the door.

For the next 20 minutes, until I got off at my stop, the twenty-something-year-old, spiky-haired driver kept the reggae blasting, fast-fowarding past the Pitbull and the Will Smith. (Guess this was a mix.) Everyone in the bus ignored the music and stared straight ahead, but I kind of danced in my seat, which I’m sure made everyone think I was a wierdo.

Then Alice, who was kinda jamming out too, had a great idea.

“I wonder if we can rent out this pesero as a party bus?”

DUDE. Imagínate! A pesero-pub-crawl along Presidente Masaryk. Rolling up to Celtics and Irish Pub Concept in the tinted-windowed, Scion-esque mini-bus. It’d be worth it just to see the look on people’s faces. (Of course, we know this could never happen, but the idea made us laugh. ….Unless maybe…. ?)

As my stop approached, I desperately wanted to get a photo of the pesero’s low-rider exterior. But I couldn’t get my camera ready in time. As soon as I jumped off — peseros stop for like three seconds, and not completely; it’s a California-stop kind of thing — the bus rumbled off down Rio Mississipi, reggae tunes fading away into the distance. Oh well. Thanks for the great ride, dude.

*To hear a snippet of the ride, click on the link under the photo.

Mexican convenience-store wars

July 15, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

One of the things I loved about living in my apartment was that we had an Extra, a local convenience store chain, a half-block away. They accepted my torn peso bills, unlike the other Extra two blocks away. And they had Bud Light. (Kinda nice when you’re feeling homesick.)

Then, last week, Crayton and I were out walking and we noticed it was closed. A sign taped to the door said they were doing inventory. Okay, no biggie.

But then, a few days later, we saw this. Cardboard and newspapers taped in the windows. The sign, gone. For some reason the inventory sign remained, though.

I’m so confused. Usually when Mexican businesses close, the government puts giant “CLAUSURADO” stickers all over the building, like campaign propaganda or something. No clausurado stickers here, but with newspapers in the window, I’m guessing they’re closed for good? It’s been like this for more than a week now.

Since apparently no one is going tell the neighborhood residents the truth (although, now that I think about it, the newstand guy who sits in front of the store might know something), my theory — completely void of facts, but let’s call it a hunch — is that the other Extra, the meanies who don’t take torn peso bills, shut ’em down. They were like: “Look at you. The nice Extra. The one with actually helpful staff. Nope, you can’t make it in this world. Goodbye.”

Or maybe Modelo, who owns Extra, decided that they couldn’t justify the store’s existence with another Extra so close by. (That one’s in front of the American Embassy, where there’s always lots of traffic.) Plus there’s an Oxxo — the most popular Mexican convenience store, where you can buy cell phones and detergent and lots of other wonderful things — only three blocks the other way. Closing in on Extra like a hungry lion.

Now that I think about it, our lonely, cardboard-taped little Extra should never have survived this long. It was doomed from the start.

But what about us poor souls who only want to walk a half-block for some mineral water?

Mexico City summer food: Chili and cornbread

July 14, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Mexico City summer weather is strange. It’s sunny, but only sometimes. The other half of the time it’s chilly and rainy. If you forget your umbrella around 2 p.m., you’re screwed. Unless you enjoy sheets of water falling on your head.

If I were still living in Dallas — where it is supposed to hit 104 today — I would currently have the oven under lock and key. I’d be whipping up a panzanella salad with heirloom tomatoes, or quinoa with baked tofu, roasted red peppers and feta. (Quinoa fairy, please send me some in Mexico City. Kthankxbai.) Here, though, the whole “light summer meal” thing is kinda not applicable. I want stews. Soups. Hot, hearty things.

So this weekend I whipped up a batch of chili, which used to be one of my go-to winter meals, because it took like 30 minutes.

This time it was not so easy. I had to buy and soak my own beans, since the supermarket doesn’t carry canned pinto or kidney. Ground turkey doesn’t exist, either, so I randomly selected a package of ground beef, wondering whether it was lean or not. (What does “angus” mean? Twenty percent fat? Thirty?) I added onion and chipotle, and my favorite brand of canned tomatoes in Mexico. Then I simmered the darn thing on the stovetop for nearly three hours. THREE HOURS.

The result was fantastic, though. At the last minute I decided to make some skillet cornbread, too, using cornmeal I brought from the States. This now means I’m out of cornmeal, but hopefully I can figure out how to buy some from a tortilla press. (“Maiz de grano”? “Elote de grano”? “Maiz molido”? Anyone?) My local supermarket doesn’t carry it.

Anyway, if you also happened to be looking for cool-weather food ideas, the recipe is below.

Americanized Mexico City Chili

1/2 c. dried black-and-white “vaca” beans, soaked overnight in cold water
1/2 c. dried small pink beans, soaked overnight in cold water
1 onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 c. tomato/chipotle puree (basically boxed tomato puree mixed with chipotle chiles — it’s concentrated and super hot)
1/2 lb. ground beef
1 480g can of Cirio Whole Tomatoes (This is my favorite Mexican tomato brand. Hunt’s blows.)
1 teaspoon sweet smoked paprika
1 to 2 tablespoons ground cumin
pinch of cayenne
sprinkle of chili powder
salt and pepper to taste

Garnish:
Chopped jalapeño
Cilantro

For chili:
Heat 1 tablespoon of canola oil in a dutch oven. Add your onion and cook for five minutes or so, until soft. Add the garlic and stir, cooking until aromatic, about 30 seconds. Then add ground beef and cook until browned, about 10 minutes. If you bought “angus,” like me, you will have a lot of fat. Drain it off and continue. Your meat now drained, add the tomato puree, beans and tomatoes, and enough water to cover everything by three inches.

Bring to a boil, then simmer until beans are tender, skimming off fat from the top and adding more water if the mixture gets too thick. This will be about three hours if you live in DF. About twenty minutes before the chili is done, add your spices. Serve with chopped jalapeño and cilantro. And, if you’re lucky enough to find cheddar cheese at your local market, add a sprinkle of that too.

Skillet Cornbread
(Adapted from Joy of Cooking’s “Northern Cornbread” recipe)

Position a rack in the center of the oven. Preheat to 450F. Grease your iron skillet with vegetable or canola oil. Then whisk together in a large bowl:

1 1/4 c. stone ground cornmeal
3/4 c. all-purpose flour
1 to 4 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda

Whisk together in another bowl:

2 large eggs
2/3 c. milk
2/3 c. buttermilk (I make my own buttermilk, since I can’t find it here.)

Add the wet ingredients to the dry, and stir until just moistened. Fold in two to three tablespoons of warm, melted unsalted butter.

Batter will be really wet. Pour it into the pan, and bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 20 minutes.

Karaoke, Mexico City style

July 13, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Back in my early twenties in Dallas, I used to hit the same dive-ish karaoke bar on Thursday nights, and close the place down.

I’d sing Snoop Dogg and Mary J. Blige, and slurp double-vodka and Red Bulls. Eventually, as the years went on, I cut back on the vodka and stopped staying out so late on school nights. (And came to regard Red Bull as the devil.) But anytime friends invited me out to sing, I almost always said yes.

On Friday, friends invited Crayton and I to a karaoke bar called Amapola. I’d been to a Mexican karaoke bar once before in Guanajuato, but that place was not like Amapola.

Amapola was actually two bars in one — a cabaret ballroom with velvet furniture and martinis on one side, and a casual piano/karaoke bar on the other. A velvet rope blocked the entrance out front, along with a man with a clipboard. “Good evening, under what name?” he asked us.

Eventually, after walking through a chandelier-accented foyer with marble floors, we made it into the piano bar. It was like the House of Blues in there: black-painted, cavernous, with flashing lights and a live band. Our group had just ordered a bottle of vodka when we arrived. Our server, a man in a tuxedo, poured all the drinks.

I was glad I dressed up, because some of the people here looked like they were headed for the club. (Wait… was this the club?) Guys wore distressed jeans and tight T-shirts; a few of the girls had on skinny jeans and and SJP heels. Most of these people eventually ended up onstage, singing their hearts out in Spanish to live back-up music. I remained at the table, sipping my vodka tonic.

I’d walked in there thinking I would sing something, but a flip through the songbook changed my mind. The English section consisted of Madonna, Four Non Blondes, Aerosmith, AC/DC and a few others. They had Selena — but in front Mexico City fresa-ish crowd, with a live band, was I really going to sing “Como la Flor”? I needed something upbeat. Something that’d get people singing. Something like K-Paz de la Sierra’s “Mi Credo,” which a guy in a Dolce-and-Gabbana belt sang with his distressed-jeaned partner.

Even though I didn’t end up singing, it was highly entertaining to sit in the audience and watch. A woman celebrating her 30th birthday swayed on stage with her friends; a woman from our group sang a lovely ballad. The house band performed during the breaks, and the lead singers were pretty good. I kept asking one of the Mexico natives at our table: “What period is this song from? The 80’s? The 90’s?”

I’d love to do karaoke again, at a place that’s a bit more casual. (I’m assuming they exist here.) Gotta study up and find my go-to Spanish language song though. Hombres G? (Too played out?) Or maybe, with a girlfriend, duet-style… Antes Muerta Que Sencilla? I’m open to suggestions, if you’ve got any.

My first, self-organized Mexico City street food tour

July 10, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Just around the corner from my house, there’s a line of street food stands maybe six deep. They’re so close, we can hear the dudes rolling out their steel carts in the wee morning hours. At various times of they day, you can find chocolate and rice atole, plastic cups brimming with yogurt and cereal, sandwiches (some made with American-style bread, others on bolillos); flautas, carnitas tacos, tacos de suadero. And sunglasses and ties, too.

It’s a travesty that I haven’t tried any of it yet. So yesterday I grabbed my friend Alice, a street food fiend, and we hit the streets for our first-ever Mexico City street food tour.

Here were our rules:

Keep it manageable. We’d only visit stands near Cuauhtemoc, which is my neighborhood. On the next tour, we’ll delve into other areas. (Like the stands on the south side of Plaza de Insurgentes. GOD they look good.)

Share. We’d split every item, as to keep tummies hungry for more food.

Be efficient. We’d keep the tour to 1 1/2 hours. (This was my rule. I had to be back to continue working on a story.)

Street food essentials to have in my purse:

Here’s how it went to down. Pics and details after the jump.
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And then one day, we didn’t have any gas

July 9, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I seriously feel like a homeowner. In the four months we’ve lived here, we’ve suffered through water shortages, cistern blockages, telephone-line installation problems, and now: a broken gas meter.

The gas problems started a few days ago, when the pilot light on our water heater went out. (Unfortunately, I realized this after I’d already gotten into the shower.) I thought: No biggie. Crayton will light it when he gets home. But when he got home, he couldn’t keep the thing lit. It’d shut off as soon as we turned the temperature dial. And then — our stove stopped working. After I’d already poured olive oil into the pan to make sauteed peppers and onions for tostadas. You can see said pan above, on the left.

Called the gas company yesterday, and at first they insisted it wasn’t their problem.

“I’m sure it’s something on your end,” a receptionist calling herself Señora Ibañez said. “If it was a problem with the whole building, we would’ve gotten more phone calls. You’re the only call we’ve gotten.”

Before I could attempt to argue with that ludicrous logic — I’m in a building with three offices where people don’t shower or use the stove; two other residents here have been on vacation — they agreed to send someone over and take a look.

Fast forward to several hours later. Two gas men were standing on our roof. One was maybe 16 years old, wearing skinny jeans and a white belt. The other looked about 40. Pablo was also standing there too, for some reason I wasn’t entirely aware of.

“Here’s your problem,” the older guy told me. Using a wrench, he removed the gas meter from its two pipes and showed it to me. “Your meter was made in 2005. See? It says 2005 here.” He pointed at the 2005 on the front of the meter.

I nodded.

“These things are really cheap, throwaways made in China. You should have gotten a 2008 version installed.”

Yeah yeah yeah dude, I wanted to say. Just get to the point.

“See, if I blow on it here” — he put his lips to one edge of the meter, which had just been on the pipe, and puffed out his cheeks — “The air doesn’t escape. See? It should escape out the other side. That means there’s a blockage somewhere in there. Try it.”

He passed the meter to Pablo, who immediately put his lips on the meter and tried to blow, too.

“How much is a new meter going to cost?” I asked.

“Well… with parts and labor… probably about $1,500 pesos.” This is about $111 dollars.

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

In the background, Pablo was still blowing on the meter.

So. They’re coming back today to install this meter, which is hopefully a 2008 version that won’t break again in six months. They’re also going to repair a leaky “llave,” which is basically a little tube through which the gas passes, in order to reach our meter. That’s included in our 1,500 peso quote. In the meantime, the guy jerry-rigged a pipe so that we could mooch gas off someone else, just so we can take showers today and stuff.

If you are a praying person, please say a little prayer that this is the last home-maintenance issue we have to deal with. I shudder to think what else could happen as time passes here.

And now, to celebrate the temporary return of our gas, I’m going to make roasted peach ice cream.

Duff de Mexico: Homer Simpson would be proud

July 8, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Like many industries in Mexico, the beer market here is basically a duopoly. Two breweries, Modelo and Femsa, control pretty much all the options. While I love me some Mexican beer (Victoria’s my fave, and I’ve heard raves about Noche Buena), sometimes you want something different, you know?

Rodrigo Contreras, a young entrepreneur from Guadalajara, apparently felt the same way. In 2006, he successfully registered Duff Beer as a brand here in Mexico, and he’s found distribution in various countries around the world. Duff is a Pilsner-style brew now sold in Spain, Belguim, Germany and Colombia. And not in the U.S., since, according to Wikipedia, Matt Groenig isn’t hot on the idea, for fear that it’ll appeal to children.

Crayton was super excited about the chance to drink a real Duff Beer. So using his crazy Googling skills, he found a bar in La Roma called Lucille that sells it. Interestingly, Lucille also sells other independent Mexican brews, such as Cosaco and Tempus.

Crayton’s Duff Beer verdict: “Real clean taste. Let the aftertaste hit. It’s subtle… I could hang with a six pack of this watching a game. I think that’s what Homer Simpson would want.”

Fourth of July in Mexico

July 6, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

We spent Saturday at a barbecue sponsored by the American Benevolent Society and the American Society of Mexico. There weren’t any fireworks, but they had hot dogs and hamburgers, so that was nice. They also had apple pie. And kick-ass brownies.

The party was held at a private home in Lomas de Tecamachalco, a suburb west of here. Most folks there were probably our parents’ age, but we met some interesting people, including a woman who styles food for cookbooks, which I am in awe of.

Next year I think we’ll do our own cookout, assuming our grill works by then. (Update on that front: They have shipped us the part to repair our leaky regulator. Or rather, they say they have. We’ll see if we ever get it.) Can you imagine the spread? I could do mac n’ cheese, now that I’ve found sharp cheddar at the Superama in Polanco; burgers, dogs, my grandma’s potato salad with big chunks of hard-boiled egg and black olives. Mmmm.

Funny, but I didn’t really feel any burst of patriotism being out of the country on Independence Day. Actually, in my life, I only remember getting teary-eyed at one Fourth of July, when I’d just gotten back from studying for 10 months in Spain. My brothers wanted to watch the fireworks at the Queen Mary, but no one could get their act together for the long drive out to Long Beach, so we ended up at some random parking lot in Upland. As the fireworks went off, I stared up at the sky, so grateful and amazed to be back in the U.S., where they had pancakes and giant highways and actual Mexican-Americans! (Who didn’t yell at me for not knowing Spanish.)

Lately I’m just so grateful to be living in Mexico. July 21 will be six months.

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