Purrito

I grew up in a tiny countryside village outside Guadalajara, Mexico. I was three years old when I started helping my mom in the kitchen. She desperately needed assistance in the kitchen to cook for our family of eleven children. I was the third youngest, and I instinctively knew my mom needed help in the kitchen to cook for my brothers and sisters. My father was useless around the house. He worked during the day and drank at night. The vato loved his tequila.

My mom was the best of the best. She made any sacrifice required for our family to eat something every night. My mom only served herself dinner after we kids had eaten and if any food was miraculously left over. She was the backbone of our family and my heart and soul.

My mom passed away when I was 16 years old. I could live one hundred lifetimes and never get over losing her. I remember every word of our last conversation.

“Cesar, I don’t have much time left. Our maker is calling me home soon,” my mom said.

“I know, mama,” I responded, tears running down my face.

“Promise me that you will work hard and follow your dreams,” she said, caressing my hand. ”Shoot for the stars, mijo (my son). Don’t be afraid to fail because I will still love you even if you fail.”

“I promise, mama. I will work hard, and I will make you proud. One day, mama, I want to be the best chef in the world!” I said with a sense of pride and naive optimism.

“That’s wonderful, mijo,” my mom said, briefly pausing to catch her breath. “Also, remember, don’t sacrifice your dignity and your morals to get ahead or to become rich. Don’t steal. Don’t lie. You can’t live a rich life without dignity,” my mom said, sounding more like a prophet than my mother.

“I understand, mama,” I responded tearfully.

Two days later, she passed away.

The following year, I left home for good. I couldn’t live in the same house with my father any longer. I moved to the resort town of Puerto Vallarta to look for work. When I arrived in Puerto Vallarta, I was overwhelmed and scared. Puerto Vallarta was a big city in my country boy’s eyes.

Right away, I found a job as a dishwasher at the most popular taqueria (taco restaurant) in Puerto Vallarta. Tourists would travel from around the world just to eat at our taqueria. Of course, my boss was very proud of his taqueria, and I felt honored to work for such an exceptional establishment.

Every day, I worked hard. My boss was pleased with my work ethic. I loved working at the taqueria, and I often wondered if my mom would be proud of me if she were still alive.

I worked at the taqueria for a little over a year when my boss promoted me to carnicero (the person who prepared and cooked the meat).

“Cesar, you do excellent work around here,” my boss said affectionately. “I want to give you more responsibility. From now on, you will be responsible for all meat preparations and grilling. Think you can handle it?”

“Patron (boss), I love to cook. I’ve been helping in the kitchen since I was three years old. I would be honored to cook here at your taqueria!” I said, thinking and wishing my mom was still alive so I could tell her the good news. I was on top of the world.

My boss personally trained me. He carefully explained every detail of his recipes to me and demonstrated his self-taught culinary techniques. I loved learning from him. I was living my dream.

Every day. I woke up early to marinate the meat. In the afternoons, I operated the grill — 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Everyone in Puerto Vallarta worked a similar schedule. I heard that in the United States, people worked 8 hours a day, five days a week, and Saturdays and Sundays were days to rest. Such a blessed life, I thought. One day, I would love to live in the United States.

Our taqueria was always very busy. Customers waited at least two hours to feast on our food daily. The customers stood in long lines wrapped around the entire block until they were seated at a table. My boss was a local celebrity. I was very fond of him. He was the father I always wanted.

A couple of years had gone by, and the lines of customers were noticeably shorter. Then, one day, the lines completely disappeared. The tourists no longer visited Puerto Vallarta due to the local drug cartel atrocities. People didn’t feel safe here anymore.

During this time, the restaurant suffered miserably.

“I may be forced to close the business if things don’t pick up soon,” my boss said, his voice cracking.

My boss was a great person. My core ached to see him suffer like this. I would do anything to help him and his business.

As days went by, the bills piled up. My boss paid the bills from his personal savings account now. The business had no money, and he was on the verge of going broke.

One day, my boss asked me to accompany him on a walk.

“Cesar, I have terrible news. I’m closing the taqueria next week. I can’t afford it anymore,” he said, gently touching my shoulder. “I can get you a job at another taqueria in town if you like.”

“Sure, patron, but only if your taqueria is closed for good. I’m not leaving your side until then,” I said.

“Cesar, another thing, you need to start thinking about your future,” my boss sternly said.

I interrupted, “I want to be the best chef in the world and cook for wealthy people in the United States.”

“To be the best, you must train under the best. You must attend a U.S. culinary school to learn from the best.

“Learn from Aaron Sanchez, the guy on Chopped?” I excitedly responded.

“No … Rick Bayless. The gringo. He’s the best,” my boss responded, trying to lighten things up. “Just kidding. In all seriousness, to be the best chef, you need to learn other styles and techniques from around the world. There’s an amazing culinary school in the U.S. called CIA that can provide you the training you need,” my boss said.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept rewinding the conversation with my boss in my head. I would love to attend culinary school in the U.S., but how? I had very little money. I couldn’t afford to travel to the United States, and I absolutely could not afford to attend a prestigious culinary school.

Two days later, my boss excitedly ran through the front doors of the taqueria.

“I have wonderful news! The owner of Chipotle, the biggest Mexican food restaurant chain in the United States, is currently touring all of Mexico. He is searching for Mexico’s best burrito and wants to add it to the Chipotle menu. He’s ventured into every corner of Mexico looking for that special, one-of-a-kind recipe,” my boss said, beaming ear to ear. “I got a call from his secretary, and he’s coming to our taqueria! The best part is that he will pay one million U.S. dollars to buy the exclusive rights to the recipe. This would save our business forever!”

The entire staff yelled and jumped as high as they could. A couple of the guys even cried.

A unique buzz was in the air throughout the taqueria. Everyone worked harder, laughed louder, smiled wider, and cooked better. This was a day to remember. We struggled for many months, and we needed this good news.

Before we went home that evening, my boss had another announcement, “By the way, the gentleman from Chiptole will be here tomorrow at 19:00 to sample our burritos. I’m closing the restaurant to the public tomorrow so we can concentrate on preparing the best burritos we ever made!”

I had one evening to prepare for an opportunity of a lifetime. I thought about all of the possibilities. If the American loved our food, maybe he would take me to the United States to cook for his restaurant. I was very excited. My dreams were coming true.

That night, I barely slept. I was too anxious.

The next day, I was the first person to arrive at the taqueria.

The refrigerator door was wide open. A dull stench filled the air. To my dismay, I realized I had forgotten to close the refrigerator door the night before. The meat for today’s special guest was ruined!

“Oh no! What am I going to do now!” I said, crying and panicking.

I could not believe I could be so damn stupid. I’d never forgotten to close the refrigerator door until last night. I was devastated.

I tried to collect my frazzled wits. What should I do? Should I call my boss? Should I call our meat supplier? I was in shock, but I had to do something. Anything. The rest of the guys would arrive soon.

To clear my head, I walked outside to our outdoor seating area in front of the taqueria. I needed some air. I plopped myself down at one of the tables in our eating area and sat there with a blank stare.

As I sat on the verge of suicide, a black cat strutted toward me, crossing our busy street. What a beautiful cat, I thought. Its fur coat was elegant and silky. I envied the cat’s stunning beauty. At that exact moment, a car zoomed by and flattened the cat like a tortilla.

The car didn’t stop. The driver sped on as if nothing happened. I leaped from my chair and chased the vehicle on foot. I ran about half a kilometer before I stopped to catch my breath.

I ran back to the spot where I last saw the black cat. To my disbelief, the cat was still alive. The car crushed the cat’s hind legs, and it dragged itself across the street to safety. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen. The poor cat still had the will to live. The most horrific screams wailed from the cat’s little lungs. The cat cried to me for help. I picked up the poor cat. Its entire body quivered violently. I had never seen anything suffer this type of pain.

“I can’t allow this poor cat to suffer,” I whispered to myself.

With the cat cradled in my arms, I carried it to the alley behind the taqueria.

“I’m sorry, my little friend. I have to do something terrible to you … but … I hope your pain and suffering will soon be over.”

I ended the cat’s life with a whack of my machete across its neck.

As I stared down at the cat’s headless body, thoughts of my desperate situation reemerged in my mind.

I had no idea how to solve my hopeless dilemma. I still needed meat to serve our special guest. I couldn’t call the boss; the news would break his heart. I couldn’t call the meat supplier because it was too late to place an order.

As I spun a wheel of solutions, I remembered a story my mom told me as a kid. Her grandmother burnt the rabbit meat she planned to include in a rabbit stew. She didn’t confess the bad news to my grandfather; instead, she killed and cooked a neighborhood stray cat for my grandfather’s stew. At the end of the meal, my grandfather said, “That was the damn best rabbit stew I ever had. The rabbit meat was exquisite!” My grandmother never told my grandfather the truth about that stew.

I slowly turned my head and glanced at the cat’s lifeless body. A single thought entered my mind: marinade and grill the cat.

As I skinned the smooth, almost silky, black fur from the cat, I prayed and prayed for forgiveness. I removed the cat’s lean flesh from its bone and marinated its meat in the taqueria’s homemade marinade.

At this time, the staff started to trickle into the taqueria. Everyone beamed with excitement.

My boss then walked into the taqueria.

“How are the preparations going, Cesar?” my boss cheerfully asked.

“Fine, patron. The meat is marinating.” I responded, feeling damn guilty.

The meat marinated all day. I glanced often at the refrigerator where the meat was. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. Was I really going to serve a cat-filled burrito to another human being?

As 19:00 approached, the taqueria looked incredible. Beautifully decorated and meticulously cleaned. No detail was too small that day. Every napkin folded perfectly. Each fork and knife were set in their rightful places on the tables.

The meat was almost done marinating. It was time to cook. I had never cooked cat meat before, so I wasn’t sure about the required cooking time or correct temperature. I had to wing it.

I put the meat on the grill just as our special guest from the U.S. walked through the door. My boss happily greeted him at the door.

My boss and the special guest spoke like old friends.

“How much longer until the burritos are ready, Cesar?” my boss asked.

“Five minutes, patron,” I responded.

I pulled the meat from the grill, and it looked remarkably delicious and smelled exquisite. I forgot it was cat meat for a couple of seconds. I carefully drizzled the meat into the tortillas one by one. I carefully prepared three burritos for our special guest.

“Sir, I hope you enjoy our special burritos!” I said, serving Mr. Chipotle. My hand trembled as I slid the burritos onto the table.

I almost fainted as our guest took his first bite. He chewed for an eternity, it seemed, then eventually swallowed. He gently placed his burrito back on the plate. He looked around the room and made eye contact with a few of us who stood around the table. He expressed no emotion whatsoever. I was so scared. I had no idea what he would say or do next.

“I have to be honest, this is the best damn burrito I have ever had!” our special guest said enthusiastically. “This burrito contains so many rich flavors; I never had anything like it. You guys have hit a home run with this burrito! I gotta have this recipe!”

“I will pay you the $1,000,000.00 for the recipe!” our guest continued.

My boss looked at me with the biggest smile on his face and said to me, “Go ahead, Cesar. Tell him the recipe!”

I gulped, “Patron, I need to tell you something…”

To be continued…