Una mas por favor!

by Tiffany O'Connor (Australia)

Making a local connection Mexico

The world’s best tacos are found in a little oasis town in the middle of Baja. Augustine of San Ignacio had mastered the taco de carne. Tasty beef partnered with his signature salsa sat atop a fresh tortilla. Simply perfect it was the only item on his menu. But Augustine’s taco stand, a makeshift cantina pieced together by painted plasterboards, remained closed. Bells sounded as people flowed out of their cars, crammed around the central tree-lined plaza, into church. Hungry, I watched the sun dip ever-so-slowly behind the decorated, white walls of the Dominican church. The remaining light marked my path as I crossed the stone road and walked up its steps. I have never been inside a church, so I stopped outside its closed doors, waiting for Augustine to emerge. Old words carried through the wood, and my eyes traced the patterns on the carved doors, following the Spanish swirls and Aztec angles. A rumble from my stomach broke through the sermon’s rhythm, loud enough to make me step back. But the rumble turned to a roar, and my mouth dropped open when he appeared. Brad. He thundered in, guiding a dozen too-heavy motorcycles. The big bikes, mud-splattered and salt-sprayed after eating through miles of Baja roads and beaches, pounded into the cobblestone square. The dirt pillowing behind them scented with sunscreen and tequila. The doors behind me opened. Hispanic salutations and farewells flowing from the church to the plaza. The cars took their people home, as the motorcycles weaved into a stop. Clips of the bikers’ conversation in German, French and English carried across the plaza. In the flurry of traffic, I had lost Augustine. The old man, with an apron tucked under his arm, had meandered across the plaza to pull open his taco stand. Fluorescent lights flickered on to cast a halo into the dim dusk. I set off towards him, but Brad had seen him too. “Now, who's ready to try the world’s best tacos?” Brad teased, a broad smile accentuating his American accent. A low growl formed my answer. Tail tucked, the reflection of a little white dog glanced off darkened shop windows, as I raced past to catch up with the motorcycle pack. Panting, I trotted around their heavy boots, leaving trails of white fur among the patches of mud, dirt and sand on their black jeans. Brad sat himself on one of the three stools at Augustine’s counter. I sat at his feet, my tail smacking repeatedly against the cantina. With only one item on the menu, you only had to tell Augustine how many tacos you wanted. I watched the excited exchange of numbers, in broad hand gestures and tentatively spoken Spanish, between Brad’s pack and Augustine. Brad’s taco came first. I placed a paw on Brad’s foot to look up and watch the mouth-watering flavours intermingle. Golden cubes of juicy beef with a fresh red and green salsa, all wrapped in a warm tortilla blanket. The tortilla itself was a feat of mastery. So finely made, it was transparent in the light, and yet it was strong enough keep the salsa from running off with the meat. “Eh Augustine,” Brad muffled mid-mouthful, “Una mas por favor!” As Augustine cooked, Brad put his money into a metal box on the counter. In his wallet, tucked a picture of a brunette woman and child. They sat smiling on a long stretch of sand, in front of a still and sparkling sea. The Mexican flag stood tall behind them. Brad wiped his hands on his jeans as Augustine served up his next taco. Brad nodded in thanks and left, taking the taco with him. I followed the sweet and smoky trail to find Brad on a bench in the middle of the plaza. The distant voice of a child chattered through his phone. I placed my paw on Brad’s foot again, this time to watch the blue light from his phone animate smiles and shadows across his face. Talking with his son and wife, Brad placed his full plate at his feet. Leaving me to eat the world’s best taco.