The Chicken Lady

Although my Spanish proficiency is improving daily, I still know just enough to send me in circles.  On this day I wanted chicken. I asked the pretty clerk in the market where I could buy chicken since she didn’t stock any.  She was very kind and gave me a long explanation and what I think were several options, something like; “You can go here and if they don’t have any go there, or there, etc.” My best understanding was of the international hand signals for go down the street two blocks, then turn right, then continue one-half block and then look on the left side.  So off I went while Ken and our hot, tired, patient friends sat down on the curb to wait. I was on a mission.   

Following my made up directions, I passed several meat stores proudly displaying slabs of marbled red and white meat dangling from gigantic hooks while butchers expertly carved and sawed beneath swinging carcasses.  I saw nothing that resembled a chicken store so I stopped in at a corner market and asked again for directions.  I received a new set and left with renewed gusto.  Off down the street and around the corner I went and again, not a chicken to behold.  By this time, I had lost track of the direction from which I had come and some shops were beginning to look familiar.  I stopped at a taqueria whose menu indicated a specialty in chicken. I chatted with a lady who very kindly explained all of the different ways that she could prepare my chicken dish. With each suggestion my response was a shake of my head and “No”.  No beans, no rice, no mole, in fact no chicken. We both showed signs of exasperation so she called out the cook.  Under pressure, my new, limited vocabulary failed me and all I could think to say was “Quisiero un pollo por la cucina". I want chicken for my kitchen.  The cook stared at me, speechless, dumbfounded.

“Quisiere un pollo por la cucina", she repeated. 

“Si.”

She paused, looking at me like I was from Mars and then her eyes lit up. She took me by the elbow, guided me outside and pointed to a lady at the street corner sitting behind a table shaded by a big umbrella.  Ah ha, the chicken lady!  As I approached with the proud smile of having accomplished a mission, she lifted the towel covering a large stainless steel bowl, swatted away the flies, held up some hindquarters and apologized for not having any breast meat left.

“No problemo, I’ll take that one” I said pointing and then motioned that I would like her to cut off the feet which she did with one whack of a very big knife, tossed the remaining pieces onto a slippery scale and wrapped my treasure in a little green plastic bag which I carefully placed in my backpack so as not to spill the juices.   

 

I have to admit that I was a tad bit concerned when it came time to cook my prized chicken.  After all the heat, the bowl, the flies, the slippery scale were still vivid images, but the chicken smelled good and I figured that heat kills bacteria so I tossed the pieces in flour and baked them.  They were so good that I ate all of them.

I’ve been trying to figure out why the chicken had such good flavor and I can come up with only two reasons:  First, the chicken wasn’t trucked in from Arkansas, in fact I probably crossed paths with the poor little thing on my way to market; and second, it wasn’t injected with anything organic or synthetic.  It was a free-range chicken which has a different meaning in this Mexican village and probably adds to its incredible flavor.  I’m off to buy more.