Traffic had increased dramatically over the past hour; the local workers were all on the road, scurrying to and from work to grab a bite to eat. I should have known better than to venture out at this hour to run errands, but with the list of things I had to do, there wasn’t much alternative but to wait for the late afternoon. Glancing up at the dull grey-streaked skies above, I was glad that I decided against putting things off. Running errands was all the more annoying with the additional burden of foul weather. Weaving between cars, I felt a rumble from my stomach. I had forgotten to eat breakfast, and the lunch hour was quickly drawing to a close. I could have gone home and made a sandwich now that my tasks were completed, but I was feeling particularly adventurous today. I had already phoned my friend Andy in hopes that he could join me – he usually got off of work early these days - but my call went unanswered. I was on my own. Since I was out already, I decided to stop somewhere and grab a bite, company be damned. Glancing around me, I knew my options in the immediate area were limited to run-of-the-mill fast food garbage, which simply didn’t sit well with my notion of culinary adventure. I also didn’t want anything which I was used to having, which further limited the choices.

I recalled seeing a Mexican market and butcher shop near the sushi restaurant I frequented from time to time, and it was a mere mile down the road, so I pressed forward to see what there was to see. If nothing else, my curiosity would be satiated for what was in that particular place, and if they had no café or tortilleria inside, then I’d resign myself to tuna on wheat bread at home. Pulling into the busy strip mall, I passed two loading trucks and found a spot almost right in front of the market. A few icy raindrops began to fall as I stepped out into the chilly afternoon air. Even from the outside, I could see that the market was at least somewhat busy, and noticed a few racks of spices and various foodstuffs through the plate glass window which was otherwise plastered with signs and notices. Opening the door, I stepped in and took a look around. The place was tiny; the shelves I had seen through the window belied their actual configuration – so close together, that one could not walk between them without turning to one side or the other and sliding past. To the right was a cash register, where a pretty young woman was taking a lunch order from a husband and wife. Above her head was posted a five-foot wide menu, all in Spanish, and with a large variety of options printed neatly in block-letter columns. The remaining space in the already-cramped Mercado housed a hodgepodge of tables and chairs, none of them matching, and much to my surprise, a short-order window through which the bustling kitchen was located. Next to it, a small butcher case behind which two butchers were rapidly conversing with a female Mexican customer. The walls that closed in this whole amalgam were painted a hideous lime green, vaguely reminiscent of the neon color which had inexplicably gained so much popularity in the eighties.

Knowing I wouldn’t have much time before the cashier asked me what I wanted, I brought my attention back to the printed menu overhead. There were the standard tacos, at a very reasonable dollar and fifty cents each. The picture posted beneath the word ‘tacos’ indicated that they weren’t the typical crispy shell filled with ground mystery meat, but instead a soft corn tortilla topped with a choice of meat and accompanied with lime wedges and the appropriate condiments. That was a good sign; I couldn’t handle a belly full of grease, as was the case when I had attempted to eat at so many other "Mexican" restaurants in the area, which were by and large just a glorified version of Taco Bell. My talent in understanding Spanish, along with a couple of other languages, was by far biased towards reading and listening rather than speaking. The menu choices read "pollo, bistec, barbacoa, lengueta, tripa". I grinned despite myself, as I recognized all of them - chicken, beef, barbecue, tongue and tripe. Given my general dislike of organ meats and not feeling adventurous enough to try eating cow’s tongue just yet, I decided on two chicken tacos. My stomach rumbled again, this time louder, as the smell of savory cooking wafted through the Mercado and up my nose. Already I could smell the sharp scent of frying onions, and a host of other delicious smells that did little but to conjoin into one olfactory command that came across as "order some more." I haplessly scanned the rest of the menu for one additional item, but didn’t see anything before I heard a voice.

"Que compras?" called the cashier. What do you want? I was out of time. I approached the counter and pulled out my wallet. Not wanting to risk coming across like an idiot with a feeble attempt at speaking Spanish, I asked her in English if they accepted credit cards. She looked at me quizzically for a minute before smiling and replying in English that they did. (What was that look for? The best I could figure was that maybe she thought I was Mexican or South American, perhaps, given my skin color.) I ordered the chicken tacos, and then asked, on a whim, if they did quesadillas. They did, she said. She then asked me if I wanted chicken on that as well, to which I nodded and then requested that they could put jalapenos on it to boot. The couple who had completed their order stood right next to me, and I suddenly noticed through my peripheral vision they were both staring at me intently. (Perhaps they were as confused as the cashier regarding either what I was doing in there, or where I was from, or why I wasn’t speaking Spanish, or maybe all three). Having frequented some hard-core-ethnic establishments before, I was used to the stares and the questioning glances. It probably wouldn’t be the last of the day, in any case, so that wasn’t a barring factor. I was going to eat lunch here, and that was that. I added a Coke to my order, not wanting to risk drinking tepid tap water from a questionable source.

The cashier took my credit card and ran it through, after handing a money order to the waiting couple next to me. Ah, that was why they were standing there. The door opened behind me, and several men walked in, likely construction workers, judging by their dirt and oil-stained jeans and work shirts. After the transaction was completed, I took my receipts and went over to sit near the short order counter, where I’d be able to clearly hear the cook call my number over the growing din of conversation and other noise surrounding me. The television mounted in the corner was blaring out a Mexican soap opera (the omni-present telenovelas which were broadcasted day and night on the Spanish-speaking channels). More people had entered the Mercado, and it was quickly becoming crowded, as the workers scrambled in the kitchen and behind the butcher counter to keep up with the orders. From what I saw, there were two workers in the kitchen, a man who was doing the actual cooking and frying in the far back, and a pretty woman (that made two of those) who was standing just behind the counter, assembling the dishes and calling out completed orders for the customers to pick up. I had begun looking around for a cooler in which I could find my Coke when the cashier from the counter suddenly appeared next to my table.

"I need this," she said sheepishly as she reached for my receipt. She took it over to the short-order lady, and they exchanged a brief conversation which was too quiet for me to hear. Oops. Should’ve realized that the only way for them to complete the order was for me to walk up and hand it to her. Shaking my head at the simplicity of what I’d forgotten, I offered an apology to the cashier as she passed back by me to the register where several customers had now gathered, waiting to give their own orders. She offered a nod and a smile before passing by. At least she didn’t seem to hold it against me.

A dozen signs in posted in the Mercado were related to the butcher, offering a rather wide variety of cuts of meat at some pretty reasonable prices. A few customers had shuffled into the tiny market area (or, perhaps more appropriately, market corner) to pick up groceries, twisting and turning to fit between the stacks of tortillas, salsas and spices which waited on their steel perches. The butcher handed over a huge shrink-wrapped plastic tray of flank steak to a tiny woman who looked positively clownish carrying around what had to amount to no less than ten pounds of meat.

"Veinteseis!" called the short order cook. Twenty-six. I looked down at my receipt and saw the number twenty-eight circled twice. They were quite fast with their turnaround time. I watched a man come up to the counter and claim his family’s lunch, along with two glass bottles of orange soda that he paused to open, using the oversized opener tied to a leash on the left side of the counter. So my beverage is behind the counter. Good to know. A small sign near the trash bin under the television displayed the health code rating, a 90. Good enough for me, and I’d eaten at places with far lower a score.

The people seated all around me, coworkers, families, friends were all now engaged in what sounded like very lighthearted conversations, several of which actually branched between tables, and with a good measure of laughter all around. The result was like nothing I’d ever experienced in any other restaurant. There seemed to be a feeling of community here, something which I hadn’t seen in many places, much less a hole-in-the-wall market. I noticed no one had given me any more strange looks, which was nice.

"Veinteocho!" Twenty-eight. At least my Spanish was still decent enough to recognize numbers. I rose from my seat and walked the five steps to the counter as the cook handed over a small paper plate with two small open-faced soft tacos and then a large stoneware plate on which sat a heap of salad and two folded quesadillas. Whoops. I could see already that it was too much for me to handle, but I had placed the order, and that was that. She began to turn around, before raising her finger in realization and turned back to hand me a large glass bottle of Coke from the cooler below the counter. I was floored. I hadn’t been served a glass bottle of Coca-Cola in the United States anywhere. For the record, a glass bottle of Coke is by far superior to a can or from the fountain, no matter what anyone says. I paused to pop the top of the bottle with the opener, and grab a few napkins and a plastic fork before returning to my table and the ongoing telenovela which was now in full swing (the heroine was apparently being pursued by a masked assassin in a Rolling Stones t-shirt carrying a submachine gun). I noticed that all the patrons’ eyes glued to the screen.

I started with the tacos. They were petite, and topped with a modest amount of spiced pan-fried chicken and a mix of raw diced onion and cilantro. Taking up a wedge of lime, I gave a generous squeeze across the tacos, and paused to add some of the juice directly into the bottle of chilled coke. Taking up one of the tacos, I gave it a quick wrap across the top from both sides, and took my first bite.

They say that alcoholics experience something known as a moment of clarity. I knew from this first bite that I had discovered the culinary version of that concept. The sheer freshness of the taco was a marvel in and of itself. The chicken was perfectly cooked, neither under- or over-done, and spiced just right, notably without the typical saltiness associated with this cuisine at typical eateries. The three-way combination bite of the onion, sharp herbal note of the cilantro, and the sour zing of the lime juice was the perfect accompaniment. The undeniably fresh and velvet soft corn tortilla served as the best possible medium through which all these flavors were all-the-more intensified. I finished the first one quickly, partly due to the hunger and mostly because this was without a doubt the best taco I’d ever eaten. I had noticed some other folks walking up the counter to request salsa, but I was glad I hadn’t. The tacos simply didn’t need it; they were little masterpieces on their own. Nonetheless, I decided to get a little creative with the second one and added a fresh slice of avocado (which sat atop my salad) to the taco, wrapping it up and finishing it just as quickly as the first. The cold Coca-Cola cut with the lime juice was the most delicious beverage I’d tasted in some time, and despite my aversion to sodas in general, I was glad I had ordered it.

I paused for several minutes to fully appreciate the bevy of fresh flavors I’d just experienced (and to see the buxom heroine outwit her would-be rock-and-roll assassin, much to the delight of the rest of the patrons) before starting in on the salad. It was simply prepared, a bed of cut lettuce (not machine-sliced!) on which lay a dollop of sour cream, a few red tomato and white onion slices as well as a few fresh slices of the deep green avocado. Avoiding the sour cream, I demolished the rest of it, saving a couple of pieces of avocado for the quesadillas.

Here was the deciding factor: every quesadilla I’d ever eaten in a Mexican restaurant was either too greasy, salty or dry. This one was perfect; the cheese was nicely melted, definitely not salty or greasy at all (a miracle in and of itself), and the thick flour tortilla was actually grilled inside and out, something which I’d never seen before. The addition of that nicely-seasoned chicken made it all the better, and I somehow managed to eat most of the portion before finally giving in, and sitting back to watch the introduction to the next telenovela and enjoying the rest of my Coke. I suddenly realized that while the chicken was in everything that I ate, I didn’t come across a single bit of gristle or fat, something which was a commonplace occurrence in any other restaurant I’d been to (and many of them carrying menus far more costly than this simple Mercado).

After cleaning my table off and walked outside, I checked the time and was amazed to see that I had been at lunch for about forty-five minutes. I couldn’t recall, even at family dinners, when I had last taken such a leisurely time to eat, and moreover enjoyed the food so much as I had this afternoon. It was simply unlike any Mexican cuisine I’d ever had before – the pure freshness of all the ingredients, lack of any excess salt, not a drop of grease, and a relaxed, simple atmosphere in which to enjoy it all combined to form an culinary experience which by far exceeded even the finest so-called-gourmet restaurants I’d had the "privilege" of trying in the past. And all this from a place that hundreds of people pass by every day without a second thought.

As I drove back home, now more than satiated, I realized two things: One was that I’d never eat Mexican food at any other local restaurant again, and the second was that I hoped to have some company next time.

Oh, and I’ll be sure to pass the ticket on to the short order cook.