Pulquería en Cristóbal Colón August 12, 2021
Margarito’s book store is located near Calle Cristóbal Colón, on a street named Calle Paniagua, apparently after a guy who called himself “Mr. Bread-and-Water.” His first name was Flavio. The store is more of a parking lot, with makeshift roofing, and I worry that Margarito’s large collection might be threatened by deluge or conflagration. I stumbled upon one book on his unsorted stacks that was a history of Chiapas, published over a hundred years ago, its quarto-pages still uncut, the paper brown and musty with age, sitting among hundreds of others in the open air. On one page, I even managed to spy the word Zapatista. I was not aware the term was coined while the eponymous Emiliano still lived.
In the back of the book-lot is a doorway which leads into a small cement courtyard, used for yoga and meditation by the lesbian collective that inhabits the space, and another doorway leads into the rear of Mayahuel Pulquería, a dark hole-in-the-wall cantina on Cristóbal Colón that specializes in Pulque, where I am supposed to meet with Margarito and Miriam to discuss the literary scene in Chiapas.
Pulque is an alcoholic drink formed from fermented sap of the heart of the Maguey plant, in the Agave family, and it has a tradition dating back a thousand years in southern Mexico. The beverage has a milky off-white color and a taste that is sour, yeasty, slightly sweet, and rather slimy—in short, muy natural. Served in rough clay mugs, Pulque strives to be some curative nectar for good indigenous living, even called Beverage of the Gods. And yet, in the strobe-light shadows and metal grunge of Pulquería, where I am first met by an eager bearded server wearing a revealing black waitress-uniform, the drink clearly appeals to a diverse clientele—myself not included, as I would seem to lack the necessary diversity.
Part of this city’s diversity is its freak show of avant-garde types from Europe and the Americas—those unchained spirits, risk-takers, healers, reality-changers—and it appears I have stumbled into one of their dens. Margarito has so far proven an erstwhile guide to this scene. He knows where to find the Temazcals, how to join creative writing groups, where the underground live gigs are happening. One recent event was at a black-box cafe called Wapani, and it was a mesmerizing one-man dramatic play, a parable featuring a campesino peasant, a hacienda-owner, a priest, and a pig. You must decide who the hero of the story is. It was a tour-de-force performance for the sweat-streaked Gordito Teatral, who kindly took questions and cash tips after the performance.
Margarito and Miriam have finished their mugs of Pulque by the time I arrive, so we are primed for a boisterous conversation, completely in Spanish. I will have to obtain the nuances, as well as the general idea of what was discussed, from my anonymous source at a later date. Meanwhile, some intoxicated musician nearby is having a coughing fit, and I am itchy to leave. The yoga session in the next room is starting, and it sounds unexpectedly loud, more like a purge than a cleansing. I fear I have become affected by the militant feminist graffiti that covers this city, especially on the old church walls, crying out with radical insistence, resonating with everyone within earshot: “Aborta El Systema!”
Out on Cristóbal Colón, it is drizzling. The sandstone sidewalks are as slick as ice, especially wearing my leather boots, as it seems that the shoe-shine boy in the plaza may have waxed my soles. Taxis race by me to the next perilous intersection, their sharp turns screeching at any speed on these wet polished stones. Filming a car-chase scene in this city would be a nightmare, but the sound effects and blind corners would not be a problem. Nor would the alien ambiance, created from recycled antiquity, showered in mystery, and celebrated by clueless pilgrims. One who is blocking my path at the moment is a displaced Midwestern beanstalk in a paisley gown and braided hair, trying to sell out his inventory of pot brownies. The poor fellow is shivering and his basket is getting wet, so I direct him toward Mayahuel Pulquería, where a literary scene is heating up and in need of creature comforts.