The Joys of Gula - the Curse of the Pig

​I know it’s one of the commandments, but ever since moving to Mexico, I can’t seem to resist Gula – Gluttony, and end up constantly with what they call here Mal del Puerco - "the curse of the pig".  In English it sounds terrible, but in Spanish, it’s hysterical.  It literally means I’m eating because it’s just so delicious I can’t stop myself. 
 
Day before yesterday, to take my mind off how much my post-op shoulder and pre-op hip and goodness knows what other grievances, Bob and I decided to go out for breakfast to a new restaurant I found – as usual – by accident.  It’s sign and front door are both small and inconspicuous, and since it’s not on my regular route into the bigger town nearby, I hadn’t found it until just the other day.
 
You walk in a long entryway, called a saguan here – where carts would have driven in the olden days.  The ceiling is slats of palm wood, with ceramic globe lights hanging down.  A large hand-carved boar mask – we have famous mask carvers nearby – grinned down at us.  Mal del Puerco…!
 
The first terrace was inviting, with its Mexican pink archway, but looked too sunny, so we went past the bar to the opposite side of the courtyard, in front of the outdoor kitchen.

The waiter appeared right away, wiping invisible crumbs off and handing us typed menus in rumpled plastic sleeves.  Could he serve us café de olla?  Absolutely!  And a fruit plate and deep fried gorditas – double-thick smallish tortillas, the closest I come to doughnuts since I can’t eat wheat but can still gorge on corn.  Oh, and also green juice.
 
When I travel to the US, I always buy green juice in those plastic bottles in the airport, since it seems like my least unhealthy airport-fast-food alternative, but believe me when I say, it’s not the same as the green juice here.  This was just blended, and the waiter asked if we wanted it strained or not – NOT, of course!  So delicious.  Fresh orange juice with pineapple, celery, parsley and nopal.  It sounds revolting, I know, especially nopal which I usually hate because of the baba – the slime, like okra, yuck – but it isn’t.  And it has the added benefit of being a de-toxifier, always a good idea for those of us who suffer from Gula.
 
We sit watching the hummingbirds and butterflies, enjoying the smell of wood burning in the open fires behind us, sipping our spice-laden café de olla, eating our gorditas – mine with sugar, Bob’s with salsa, waiting for our breakfast, which pops out very quickly.  I have chicken tacos smothered in green salsa, and Bob as always has red chilaquiles, our state’s specialty.
 
Afterwards, I can hardly roll out to the street.  Thank goodness we came by car – no way could I walk home from here!