Days 46-47 | Los Petates | San Ignacio B.C.S., Mexico
Just a tinge of Montezuma's Revenge. Not by any epic proportions but enough to keep the old el baño within arms reach. To my credit, I’ve not denied myself much of anything, including some dodgy ceviche (and leftover dodgy ceviche, regrettably) and $3 pickup truck pina coladas.
It’s near impossible to defeat this iron-clad gut of mine, but I’ve learned time and again that Mexico spares no one, and I mean no one. Not even the ones raised on Counter Roast.
For the last half of my teenage years it was just my dad and I, living in a rented duplex in Gresham Oregon with ratty old carpet and discount store furniture and hand-me-down dishes from a distant family friend called Uncle Ross who had recently passed away, and, as far as I know, had never been anyone's actual uncle.
My dad was a butcher by trade, so I guess you could say we were Paleo before it was a fad diet. On Sundays, after church, he’d make a blimp of a pot roast that he’d previously claimed from the Reduced For Quick Sale section at work. At dinner time, he’d take it out of the oven using a kitchen towel that served both as our dinner napkins and a set of potholders and would proudly set the roast on the counter. Then, he would leave it there, for days. Maybe it was too large to fit in the refrigerator, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if it had. Anyone who questioned his method would get quickly dismissed, “it’s fine,” he’d say, throwing the potholder-napkin-towel over one shoulder, clearly annoyed at the distrust.
On Monday he would cover the counter roast with a piece of tinfoil “to keep it fresh” and at meal times he’d saw me off another slab, taking care to scrape away the bits of white crumbly fat that had settled between the potroast and the tinfoil, then he’d serve it up on one of Uncle Ross’ old plates alongside a mountain of iceberg lettuce, drenched in Ranch.
By midweek the counter roast would get reduced to being served wrapped in a paper towel between two pieces of bread flooded with mayonnaise and ketchup which helped the now dry, fibrous tendons go down a little easier.
So I owe this golden gut of mine to my dad, without a doubt. Counter roast aside, I’m sure most everything he made was prepared slightly below industry standards, and with heaps and mounds of love, as dad’s are wont to do. These days my dad keeps only a two liter of Squirt and his slippers in the refrigerator at his memory care facility. What I would give for one more Counter Roast sandwich...
I made it out into the daylight this afternoon just long enough to stumble my way into town with Oscar for our one-on-one time, as promised. The town of San Ignacio looks like an adorable little movie set I’d like to scoop up and carry around in my pocket with me forever. Oscar got an ice cream and I got a bottle of coke to help keep me keepin’ on. The rest of my day was spent in bed, tucked into the fetal position, trying to keep all of the inside stuff on the inside. Viva la Mexico.
