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A morning of atole, tequila and negotiation in the mountain shadows

In this atmospheric 1992 narrative, former Guadalajara Reporter editor Allyn Hunt relates a tale of haggling for dog bones with a hungover butcher named Eladio Vázquez during a saint’s day fiesta in a rural Jalisco pueblo.

The heat of May is searing in the mountain ridges surrounding Guadalajara now. Below, where the great bowls of extinct seas are hosts to rural pueblos, the air is still cool at seven o’clock. There, women rinse the cobbles in front of their homes with pails of water, raising the sweet odor of dampened dust. 


Breakfast at Altagracia’s: A world where kindness mixes with thin resources

On a recent chilly morning, I stopped at a nearby public market for some hard-crusted bolillos. It was an unseasonably squally January day-a brief drizzle, a slice of sun, then clouds and more chilling drizzle. On the muddy steps of the mercado municipal, I ran into Altagracia Mendez, dueña of my favorite meat-and-salsa puesto. A sepia-complected, plumpish woman with a grand Aztec nose, she was bundled in rebozo covered by an old sarape of her husband’s, Don Lupe.

After the usual pleasantries, she squinted at me. “And then,” she said as if taking up a conversation that had just been interrupted, “you don’t eat anything when you come the mercado, anymore? You don’t say hello to you friends? You’re going back to acting like a gringo, again? Is that what that newspaper mischief is doing to you, otra vez?

She didn’t wait for an answer. “You work too hard at the wrong times, you know that, don’t you?” She smiled, pumping my hand with her callused palm. “Pos, we forgive you. But only if you come up and have something for almuerzo. Listen to me, now.” She wrung my hand. “Without fail.”