It made me wonder: If the food is so dangerous, why aren’t the Mexicans getting sick? (“Their stomachs are used to the germs,’’ was one response.)
I didn’t take the advice, though I do admit to some initial caution on what could be called my “Rebellious Eating Tour.’’ I wasn’t eating lizards or gizzards — not my style — but I was breaking those eating-in-Mexico rules. It felt bold.
I started with ice cream. On an unexpectedly warm day after a week of rain and cold, I was overdressed, sweating, and a good walk from my rented apartment. The vendor outside the Temple of the Immaculate Conception was doing a brisk business under his striped umbrella, scooping cups and cones for schoolchildren from a small, wheeled cart. It looked good. Real good. And the flavors were enticing: zapote, chamoy, limon, cajeta, café, chocolate, vanilla, queso, coco. I chose café, which was slightly icy — possibly made with that questionable water, not milk — and utterly delicious.
I walked home. Did not get sick. Wanted more.
I realize it’s silly to say I felt empowered by eating ice cream from a street vendor, but I did. So I moved on to something riskier: vegetables.
Every day at 5 p.m., a man’s voice sang through our cozy neighborhood of Guadalupe. “Elotes! Ejotes!’’
The notes were elongated at the end of each word, reverberating like a bell. Two plastic buckets dangled from a yoke across his shoulders as he strolled the cobblestone streets. One bucket held corn, which he slathered with mayonnaise before handing it to customers for what I assumed was a pre-dinner snack. The other bucket held mysterious bright green things. From my rooftop terrace, I observed a woman put one in her mouth and then spit something out. Olives! I grabbed my wallet, raced to the street, looked in the bucket. Not olives!
