As much as I’d love to be Mexican (I’m convinced I was a Mexican fisherman in a previous life), I’m occasionally slapped upside the head with the reality that I am not.
~ • ~ • ~ 
I’d arrived in the central Mexican city of Puebla with my friend and Spanish tutor, Carlos, looking forward to a week of exploring this grand old colonial city and its surroundings with him.
Carlos, born in Puebla, had also brought his wife and kids, planning to stay with relatives and spend time, between our outings, with them and other family members who live in Puebla state.
But that very first night, on my way to dinner in my hotel, I received a call from Carlos. His ten-year-old son had just suffered an attack of acute apendicitis and was going to be in the hospital for a few days. Just like that, our Spanish-learning-on-the-fly itinerary evaporated, and I was on my own for the rest of the week.
That’s okay, I thought. I’ve spent countless days exploring various Latin American locales by myself. I can do this.
Turns out I’ll be dining solo…
with an audience.
FAMILY
But in a twist I found incredibly sweet—and typically Mexican—Carlos had other plans for me. The next morning my phone rings, and it’s one of his cousins wanting to know if I’d join him for an excursion to nearby Cholula, with its monumental cathedral, world’s most voluminous pyramid and stunning view of the nearby volcano, Popocatepetl.
Next day, it’s another of Carlos’s cousins, offering to show me around Puebla city. And so on…
Later in the week I’m invited to a nephew’s small, suburban townhouse for dinner. I arrive by taxi at about 6:00 and there’s Manuel and his wife, Isabel, welcoming me as if I were an old friend of the family.
Isabel has devoted the afternoon to preparing the beautiful signature dish of Puebla. Chiles en nogada is a seasonal recipe consisting of fist-sized poblano chiles stuffed with picadillo, a thick, savory meat stew, then slathered in snow-white walnut cream sauce and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and parsley.
As blown-away as I am by the presentation, I’m apprehensive about sitting down with the whole family just watching to see how much I enjoy the amazing meal they’ve worked so hard to prepare for me.
It’s a very warm afternoon, and I don’t think the lower level has air conditioning, so I’m already sweating. Uncomfortable as I am, I’m even struggling with my normally decent Spanish.
PRAISE THROUGH GRITTED TEETH
I lift that gorgeous first bite to my mouth and…Wow!, this really is delicious! Or so I think for about ten seconds. That’s when the heat kicks in.
I figure a big swig of my beer will
douse the fire, but it’s like pouring
gasoline on it.
Poblano chiles are supposed to be relatively mild—about half as hot on the Scoville scale as jalapeños. But this must have been an unusually hot one; to this gringo’s innocent taste buds, it might as well have been one of those infamous ghost peppers.
If I was a bit uncomfortable before, I’m now feeling like a lobster dropped into boiling water. And that’s about the color my face is turning.
Of course, I’m gushing praise for the food, smiling and nodding my approval, but inside I dread the ordeal suddenly facing me. You absolutely have to eat at least 80 percent of this ample serving of food—and look like you’re enjoying it—or risk offending this very nice, very generous young family.
I’ve worn my nice, semi-dressy, white guayabera shirt, and by the time I’m half-way into the ordeal, the sweat’s rolling down my body, wicking into my shirt wherever it touches.
Wait, maybe a big swig of my beer will douse the fire…oh, my God, it’s like pouring gasoline on it. What I’d give for a dollop of yogurt!
IT’S ALL GOOD
Needless to say, I survived the evening. And I’m proud to say I finished nearly all of that beautiful chili en nogada. I was happy (to be done with the ordeal); my hosts were happy (that I “liked” it); and I’m sure all of Mexico was happy that they still needn’t call me one of their own.
What do you think? Did this recall any of your own cross-cultural mishaps? We’d love to hear from you!
