Mexicans Make America Great

We were sad to leave Big Pine Key, but we were overdue back in Massachusetts, where parenting and business responsibilities awaited. We had just enough time for one stop on the gulf coast, and we chose Ana Maria island, known for its white sand beaches and epic fishing.

We enjoyed the drive through central Florida more than we expected (except for the unmarked train track we hit at 40 mph, sending everything in the camper flying). The landscape was surprisingly rolling, alternating citrus groves and cattle ranches. Florida is home to its own heritage cattle breed, the Cracker cow. Descended from cows introduced by the Spanish in the 1500s, the cracker cow is small but strong, adapted to foraging the sparse scrub and swampland. We were hoping to pass a farm store so we could purchase some steaks to try, but there weren’t any along the way.

We’d eaten a big breakfast, so we weren’t planning to stop until we got to Ana Maria, but with about an hour to go, banners began popping up along state highway 674 proclaiming TACOS! TAMALES! BURRITOS! We resisted for about a mile before we finally pulled over at Taqueria Ibarra which was not just a taco truck, but a BBQ on wheels. It was hitched to a giant trailer, and mounted on top was cylindrical wood smoker the size of a small jet engine.

Unfortunately, as I approached the counter, I realized this was a cash only establishment and we had no cash on us. We started back to the truck, but it was too late, we’d been spotted salivating at the menu.

“What do you want? I’ll get it for you!” It was the older woman in line ahead of us, who was barely tall enough to see over the counter.

White, upper-middle class America is the only culture I’ve encountered where it’s not considered impolite to refuse an offer of food.

We declined profusely, but she insisted.

“You hungry? Don’t worry, I’ll get it. What do you want?”

Ben and I looked at each other helplessly. “That’s so sweet of you, but we can’t.”

“Jesus said to feed the hungry, so when I see someone hungry, I make sure I give them something to eat.”

I didn’t think we were the folks Jesus had in mind, driving around in our $30 thousand dollar rig.

“That’s okay, we’re not really hungry,” I said. “We were just passing through and it looked good so we thought we’d pick up a snack.”

She wasn't taking no for an answer. “What do you want? I’ll get it for you.” Now everyone in line, at the picnic tables, all latino, were watching the gringos’ embarrassment.

I looked at Ben and shrugged. I’ve lived and travelled abroad quite a bit, and white, upper-middle class America is the only culture I’ve encountered where it’s not considered impolite to refuse an offer of food. Maybe it’s because food is so abundant. When there is scarcity, the gesture carries  more meaning.

Aritza looked at me expectantly. I saw in her all the Mexican mothers and grandmothers who had fed me and looked out for me when I was a young woman living in Oaxaca.

“Maybe just a torta?” I thought a torta would be less expensive than other menu items, as they were on the street in Oaxaca.

“What does he want?” Ben had run back to the truck to look for a copy of his cookbook to gift her.

“We’re going to share.”

“No, go ahead, get whatever you want.”

I ordered another torta for Ben.

While we waited for the food we chatted in Spanglish. The woman’s name was Aritza. Originally from Puebla, she grew up in Texas and had lived in Bradenton for the last two decades. She’d been having a rough day. She’d brought her husband to Wimauma for cataract surgery, which he did not end up receiving because the cost was higher than she’d originally been told. They had then refused to refund her original deposit. No big surprise, they didn’t have insurance. Afterwards they'd stopped at the taqueria down the street, but the line was too long so they’d come here instead. It was all part of Jesus’ plan, because she had happened upon us hungry travelers. I could tell our chance encounter had renewed her faith at a moment when she really needed it.

 Jesus needs to buy Donald Trump some tacos!

I was relieved when Ben came back with the cookbook. Aritza was delighted. She flipped through the pages, admiring the full color photographs of sun-drenched wheat fields, flatbreads grilling over wood fire and plump sopes with mounts of meat, cheese and vegetables.

“Do you like fish?” Ben asked.

He darted back to the truck and emerged with two mangrove snapper we’d caught in the keys. Between the book and the fish, we felt like we’d almost repaid her generosity.

The tortas, which turned out to be neither small nor cheap, were overflowing with chorizo and carne asada, garnished with diced onion, cilantro and radish. They came with red and green salsa that were hot enough to satisfy even my Oaxaca-refined taste buds.

As we drove out of the parking lot, Aritza came running up to the window, clutching the cookbook, which was open to the page with the einkorn flatbread recipe.

“You made this?”

“Sure, I tested all the recipes myself. There’s more on the website. I hope you try them.” Nothing on earth, not even fresh lobster and double IPA, makes Ben happier than knowing folks are enjoying his recipes.

Our chance encounter didn't make us come to Jesus, but it renewed our faith in the power of food to bring people together across any racial, cultural or political divide. I think Jesus needs to buy Donald Trump some tacos!