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| 2017/10/10 11:42:59瀏覽118｜回應0｜推薦0 | |
| They arrived for dinner together and restaurant for a place to sit. Urique has only one restaurant, but when it’s run by Mamá Tita, one is plenty. From daybreak tillmidnight for four straight days, this cheerful sixty-something woman kept the four burners on herold propane stove blazing full blast, bustling away in a kitchen hot as a boiler room as she turnedout mountains of food for all Caballo’s runners: stewed chicken and goat, batter-fried river fish,grilled beef, refried beans and guacamole, and minty, tangy salsas, all garnished with sweet limesand chili oil and fresh cilantro. For breakfast, she served eggs scrambled with goat cheese andsweet peppers, and on the side, heaping bowls of pinole and flapjacks that tasted so much likepound cake, I volunteered to apprentice in her kitchen one morning to learn the secret recipe.*As the American and Tarahumara runners squeezed around the two long tables in Tita’s backgarden, Caballo banged on a beer bottle and stood up. I thought he was going to deliver our finalrace instructions, but he had something else on his mind. “There’s something wrong with you people,” he began. “Rarámuri don’t like Mexicans. Mexicansdon’t like Americans. Americans don’t like anybody. But you’re all here. And you keep doingthings you’re not supposed to. I’ve seen Rarámuri helping chabochis cross the river. I’ve watchedMexicans treat Rarámuri like great champions. Look at these gringos, treating people with respect. Normal Mexicans and Americans and Rarámuri don’t act this way.” Over in the corner, Ted thought he could help Manuel by translating Caballo’s clumsy Spanishinto clumsier Spanglish. As Ted yammered, a faint smile kept flitting across Manuel’s face. |
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| ( 心情隨筆｜心情日記 ) |
