A line of bodies pressed into each other on its way out of the café. The concrete floor had barred veins in it where the waste of each food stall oozed somewhere else. The cold of the plaza was blocked out by the body heat, stoves and flames of the cavernous market. Dizzying combinations of colorful fruit were piled on top of each other for salads and juices. Vendors called out to each passing person. A thousand smells combined. I could almost chew the air.
When we finally arrived at the end of the café line, the smells were overpowering. Giant pots full of purple corn liquid bubbled like volcanic lava. Vats of frying grease sizzled, popped and overflowed. The hands of the two women employees were blurs; they rushed from one pot to another, dipping into bags of ingredients with minds of their own. Grabbing money, change and mugs, they kept the kitchen humming like a machine. They greased its gears, wound it up and rushed the engine at full speed. In the midst of this the women were able to keep smiling, talking and doing business. We walked passed this whirring contraption of a kitchen, all at once full of fire and water. Our plates, food and mugs were spread out in front of us. The warm purple drinks spilled slightly onto the table at the shock of hitting something solid, after such a roller coaster trip out of the vat. The food itself was a yuka and cheese bread-like meal and a piece thin, crispy fried cheese.
As we ate the line outside the café remained large, clients respectfully plowed into the cramped space of benches and chairs, shoulder to shoulder. The small quarters forced everyone to look at each other, talk and greet one’s neighbor. The mugs rattled on hooks. Cabinets lined the wall packed with coffee beans, sugar, tea bags and cooking materials. It was like a submarine - each inch counted.
Giggling girls in trendy clothes glanced at everyone, exploding in laughter throughout through out the meal. Others were clearly just leaving a hard day of work, while some were on dates or family events. Across from me an ancient woman sat with someone who I assumed was her young grand daughter. The older woman could have been one hundred years old. She had the dignity and solidness to her of someone who had lived that long. She had seen many governments come and go. Her smile was deep in a face sculpted of wrinkles. With a long black coat on and a head of grey and white hair, she settled into her seat as if she had done so hundreds of times in the same spot. In spite of her age, she lunged at the food like a surgeon at work; she dashed the powdered sugar on and stirred the purple drink methodically. Her daughter looked about nervously while the grandmother smiled the same deep smile all along. They were opposites in age. Around us in the tight little bustling room people ate each other with their eyes and stuffed their mouths with the warm, fresh food.