Holy Guacamole! (2 page)

The Civil War, the local Salt War, the crime wave brought in by the arrival of the railroads, and the era of the gunslingers kept the blood flowing in the second half of the nineteenth century. Then the twentieth century turned El Pasoans into violence-voyeurs as the Mexican Revolution brought attacks on Juarez by Orozco, Pancho Villa, Huerta, and others. The shellings, dyamitings, and rifle charges played out across the river while our citizens watched from the top stories of buildings, railroad cars, and the river levees. There are photographs of ladies in white dresses with large hats and parasols and men in suits and hats enjoying the show, but some of the spectators were killed by stray bullets, and finally the U.S. Army returned in strength to pursue the bandit revolutionary Pancho Villa, no longer a hero in the United States. They never caught him.

Prohibition initiated another wave of crime and violence as liquor was smuggled across the river, and finally the drug wars began in the ’60s and ’70s and continue today, mostly across the river, but here in El Paso as well. Illegal immigrants, seeking a better life in the United States, drown in the river and die of heat, thirst, violence, and asphyxiation in the desert and in locked railroad cars and trucks.

We are a city with a long history of violence and death, which I had, heretofore, found a matter of interest rather than a cause for alarm. It didn’t occur to me that history could catch up with us, especially at a festive celebration after a production of Verdi’s
Macbeth
. We opera lovers enjoyed the hors d’oeuvres, the margaritas, and the cultural chitchat, but we also saw the beginning of a violent death.

The next day my amazing, cross-border adventure commenced—me: food columnist and faculty wife Carolyn Blue. But then, I’m getting used to adventure, just not at home.

It all began with the guacamole.

J
ason and I
were invited to join the Executive Committee of Opera at the Pass last spring, just before we went to France on a tour. They didn’t seem to care that we are so often away from home, all summer in New York, for instance, not to mention the various scientific meetings we attend because of Jason’s research on environmental toxins and our excursions for my syndicated food column “Have Fork, Will Travel.” My initial supposition was that the invitation stemmed from a desire to recruit someone for the committee to provide refreshments at parties and fund-raisers (little did they know that currently my interest lies more in eating than cooking).

Jason, however, served on a university committee with Vladislav Gubenko, the opera guru of the university music department and the artistic director of Opera at the Pass, which explained, according to Jason, why we were chosen, aside from our love of opera. It certainly wasn’t that we’re big donors, having given only a hundred dollars. After all, with two children in college and retirement staring us in the face twenty years or so from now, we try to be thrifty—well, Jason is thrifty, and he tries to keep an eye on me.

At any rate, we had attended a performance of Verdi’s
Macbeth
that Saturday night at the Abraham Chavez Theater, which is part of our local civic center, a rather impressive and very modern curved structure with five long, rounded windows deeply inset into thick walls. From the side, the building presents the appearance of crisscrossing slopes. Unfortunately, it has suffered from a leaky roof and other problems ever since it was finished in the 1970s. I myself have noticed stains on the curved wooden walls of the 2,500-seat theater, every seat of which was filled for
Macbeth
.

Instead of chandeliers, long curtains of crystals with lights behind them hang from the ceiling in the theater. Since I’d been reading EI Paso history, I couldn’t help but think of the much-admired chandeliers improvised for an all-night party at the home of trader James Magoffin in 1849—sardine tins attached to the hoops of pork barrels with lights attached. It must have been something to see. The historian even mentioned food served at the party—an imported “cold collation.” At most historic fiestas and banquets in El Paso history, much more notice was taken of the available beverages. For instance, when the Southern Pacific came to El Paso in 1881, historians tell us of speeches, cannons, a banquet, and a dozen bottles of champagne, seventeen gallons of wine, four hundred glasses of lemonade, and so forth. They must have had a good time, but did they get anything to eat? I knew, because I’d fixed some of the refreshments, that
Macbeth
was going to be celebrated with both food and alcohol.

And it was. Soon after the final bows, we attended the party with its gala postperformance crowd of singers, donors, members, and El Paso persons of importance. Dr. Peter Brockman, President of Opera at the Pass and wealthy neurosurgeon, gave a long-winded speech of thanks to those who had made the performance of
Macbeth
possible and promised that future productions would be less avant-garde. Obviously, he hadn’t cared for Vladik’s Tex-Mex version of Verdi’s tragic opera, in which the Scots had metamorphosed into contemporary drug dealers competing for control of the cocaine market, and the witches’ chorus was whittled down to three sopranos, further disappointing Verdi purists.

The artistic director actually interrupted the speech at one point to say that his production was calculated to bring in donors and ticket purchasers among Hispanics, who make up most of the city’s population. “University last year say I do zarzuela, no grand opera, or nobody buy tickets,” said Vladik, combing blonde locks away from a high forehead. “This year no money for any production at university. So Vladik save Opera at Pass from bankrupt.”

Dr. Brockman glared at him. Francisco (Frank) Escobar, member of the opera board and prominent community banker, who happened to be standing next to Vladik, said quietly, “On behalf of the Hispanic community, I’d like to say that we support grand opera and deplore drug dealing.” He is a slender, handsome man with ascetic features and silvering hair.

Vladik shrugged. “More Hispanic names on ticket list for
Macbeth
than last spring
Abduction from Seraglio.
I look.”

Dr. Brockman cleared his throat and introduced “our own opera-loving Father Rigoberto Flannery, who will lead us in prayer.”

Father Flannery, who had done a fine job singing Banquo but was now wearing his usual clerical collar and black suit instead of his rival drug-dealer costume (tight pants, alligator boots, unbuttoned silk shirt, and gold chain nestling on a hairy chest), took the microphone and beamed at the crowd. They in turn stopped eating hors d’oeuvres and drinking margaritas in order to join in prayer. I’d heard that Father Flannery is the son of a devout Hispanic mother from San Antonio and an alcoholic Irish father, who was killed while trying to escape family responsibilities by hopping a freight train to Houston. The Church had provided Father Flannery with schooling from boyhood on.

Well loved by his congregation at San Isidro and by opera enthusiasts, he has an excellent bass singing voice and has been known to tie his homilies during mass to operas and urge his flock to attend opera performances. Last year I heard a rumor that the bishop reprimanded him for comparing Mascagni’s
Cavalleria Rusticana
and the high rate of teen pregnancies in El Paso during a sermon on sexual morality. Funny, I never thought of Santuzza as a teenager; she’s the unwed, pregnant heroine, whose lover, Turridu, is killed in a duel at the end of the opera—divine retribution, according to Father Flannery, and an object lesson for boys who seduce innocent girls.

“Blessed Holy Father, we thank you for granting the joy of opera to humankind,” he began in a booming voice, “for surely opera is as close to the singing of the heavenly angels as we can hope to experience before you accept, as we pray, our souls into your blessed company. We ask you to look favorably upon this gathering of opera-loving El Pasoans, and upon our city, which is peopled by so many faithful Roman Catholics.

“Lastly, Holy Father, we ask your blessing on the fine food and drink provided for this occasion by our ladies.”

At that moment Adela Mariscal, a music graduate student at the university who had sung one of the three witches that night, approached a table loaded with food, bottles of champagne, and punch bowls filled with margaritas. She was carrying a large cut-glass bowl of guacamole, which looked delicious enough to make me consider asking her for the recipe. Of course, I’d have to try it first.

The priest spotted her too and added to his prayer a presumably extemporaneous blessing. “Particularly, Lord, bless our Juarez songbird, Adela Mariscal, whose guacamole is treasured on both sides of the border, a guacamole so ambrosial that even the Holy Mother could hardly make it better.”

Adela blushed and looked alarmed as she clutched her bowl, forgetting to place it on the table.

“That’s sacrilege,” gasped Frank Escobar’s besequined wife loudly enough to be heard by the priest.

He looked up from his prayer and said to the banker’s lady, “Hyperbole, my dear Barbara. I’m sure we all realize that the Holy Mother is much too busy for cooking these days. After all, she has to intercede with her Son for the forgiveness of our sins and the granting of our prayers.” Father Flannery is a Marian Society supporter. He then bowed his head again and finished, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless this food, this drink, and this company. Amen.”

The crowd murmured, “Amen,” and Vladik Gubenko hustled straight for the guacamole. “Priest is right about delicious Adela’s guacamole. Is very tasty. As artistic director, I eat it all,” and he snatched the bowl from Adela with a charming smile.

“You can’t,” she cried.

“Sure, I can.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and reached behind her for a large handful of tostados, which he scattered over the pale green surface of the avocado dip. “You make for me, no?”

“No! I—I made it for everyone!”

“In opera I am most important of everyone in El Paso. I get guacamole.” And he walked off holding the bowl, dipping a tostado into the guacamole, and savoring his prize.

Of all the nerve,
I thought. Poor Adela looked as if she might cry. And no wonder. It was a lot of guacamole. She must have spent hours chopping and squishing and stirring to produce that much dip. And when she was singing that night, too. She probably chopped all the ingredients before the performance and mashed the avocados in a blender or food processor after changing out of her costume.

“Don’t be upset, Adela,” I said to her as I helped myself to a margarita. “It’s not your fault that Vladik decided to make a fool of himself. You should take it as a compliment to your recipe.”

“Everyone ees supposed to eat some, not just Vladik.”

“Yes, I want some myself,” I agreed. “It looks wonderful, and the priest certainly thinks it’s spectacular.”

“He should not say ees better than Virgin Mary’s. Ees bad luck.”

“Well, I know they grow avocados in the Holy Land now, but that’s a new thing. I’m quite sure the Virgin never made guacamole in her day, so you really shouldn’t feel that you’ve been thrown into some sort of sacrilegious competition. Personally, I’m going to get my own tostados and share Vladik’s bowl. In fact, I’ll urge others to do the same. No reason he should make a pig of himself while the rest of us are left out.”

“
Gracias.
I hope you can get others to take from him. He is peeg,” Adela added angrily. “Probably no one want to eat from same bowl with him.”

I had to laugh. “A pig, maybe, but talented, certainly. He did a beautiful job of turning that witches’ chorus into a trio, and I have to tell you, Adela, that you sounded wonderful, the other two girls, as well. It’s hard to believe anything so beautiful could also seem so ominous. I think you have a promising future in opera.”

“Gracias, Senora Blue. You make me feel happier.” Tears actually rose in her eyes.

“Now, cheer up,” I urged, smiling. “If Vladik actually eats all that guacamole himself, he’s going to have one killer stomach ache.”

The poor girl looked horrified, although I’d been trying to make her feel better.