On this national holiday, everyone will celebrate by picnicking, barbecuing, watching fireworks, and of course, setting off our own fireworks. We may worry about polluting our environment all year long, but we get a special dispensation to celebrate our nation’s independence and blow things up. Try to stay out of the emergency room. Don’t get burned when barbecuing, don’t blow your fingers off with your fireworks, and most importantly, don’t overeat and raise your cholesterol level to astronomical heights.
During all these celebrations, take a moment to look around you. You will see Americans all around celebrating this special day. Some of them will be Mexicans, perhaps undocumented. I know we are always looking forward to this day. Occasionally, we would have a family picnic on the Fourth of July. We would do all the traditional American activities, but we would barbecue carne asada, elotes, and tamales and have a piñata for the kids. We even played Lotería using beans for the markers. But we always celebrated the Fourth of July!
I’ll have a Polish sausage with mustard and onions, but hold the cholesterol!
Last night, I watched The Blues Brothers movie again, mainly to show my sons a classic movie about Chicago. I first saw it in 1980 when I was in the Marines. I saw the 25th anniversary edition DVD at my local library and I borrowed it since I always talk about classic movies with my sons.
This is an age of reproductions and sometimes my sons will quote something from a song, a TV show, or a movie they have seen without knowing the source of the imitation, parody, or spoof. So whenever possible, I try to educate my sons by pointing out the original source. Perhaps the most famous scene from The Blues Brothers movie is the one that I’ve seen in many contexts and that is the scene where Jake and Elwood Blues go to the Triple Rock Baptist Church and find God. You know the scene where Jake back flips up and down the aisle. I once saw this scene with my sons at a movie theater during the previews. My sons had seen the scene before, too, but they had never seen the whole movie.
I liked the scene at Maxwell Street because I still remember going to Maxwell Street as a boy with my father and uncles when we lived in Pilsen. When we went to St. Francis of Assisi Church on Roosevelt and Halsted, we were right around the corner from Maxwell Street. Sometimes we went to Maxwell Street after mass. My father always went to Preskill’s hardware store where my father could look at tools for hours. I always remember the little shacks that were built in the middle of the street to sell food such as red hots (hot dogs), Polish sausages, and other appetizing greasy foods, but we never ate there.
When I was old enough to drive, I often returned to Maxwell Street, against my mother’s wishes. This was a wonderful place to buy nice clothing cheap. And tailors would alter it for a perfect fit.
It was then that I was finally attracted to the fine cuisine that Maxwell Street had to offer. Yes, I’m talking about those Polish sausages and pork chop sandwiches, way before they started serving them with French fries. Jim’s Original Maxwell Street Polish Sausage was right on the corner of Maxwell and Halsted. That was my favorite eating establishment.
Sometimes I would stop there on the way home from the comedy clubs because they never closed. I mean never! Not even Christmas or New Year’s Eve. Where else could I buy a Polish sausage and pork chop sandwich at any hour of the day, any day of the year? Sometimes I would drive by just to smell the all the Polish sausages, pork chops, and onions piled high on the ever-grilling grill that was the equivalent of Maxwell Street’s eternal flame.
I would always meet interesting people there, too. I once saw a limo pull up and the passenger in the backseat got out to buy a Polish sausage and then got back into the backseat of the limo and then it drove off. I’ve often wondered about the true story of that purchase. How cool would it be to go to Maxwell Street in limo?
When I became a Chicago police officer, if I drove past Maxwell Street, I just had to stop for a Polish sausage and a pork chop sandwich. No matter what district I worked in, if I somehow found myself going by Maxwell Street on the way back from the Cook County Jail, the Cook County Hospital, or the Cook County Juvenile Detention Center. Of course, I would stop at Jim’s Original Maxwell Street Polish Sausage and partake of their fine cuisine.
What’s a Mexican meal without beans? I remember having beans with almost every meal, including breakfast. A meal that usually consisted of beans, rice, and tortillas, provided all the necessary proteins for a healthy diet. And so, meat wasn’t always necessary. Most Mexicans eat healthy diets until they come to America and start eating fast food. Mexicans must never forget to eat their beans, rice, and tortillas. When I say beans, I really mean frijoles. They were always frijoles to me. Even when I speak English, occasionally slip and I accidentally say frijoles instead of beans.
In Chicago’s Millenium Park, we have a sculpture by Anish Kapoor called Cloud Gate. But somehow, someway everyone started calling it the Bean. Everyone except me. To me, it’s ¡El Frijol! It’s a giant frijol to me. All the sculpture needs are the accompanying rice and tortillas. But I’m not the only one who associates Cloud Gate with something Mexican. In fact, in one of our downtown bus shelters, I saw a poster of El Frijol over the bottom half of the Aztec calendar forming a symmetrical circle. The two figures complemented each other.
Anyway, I read this book called, It’s All in the Frijoles: 100 Famous Latinos Share Real-Life Stories, Time-Tested Dichos, Favorite Folktales, and Inspiring Words of Wisdom by Yolanda Nava. I must admit that the book has a very impressive, all-encompassing title, and at first, I felt too intimidated to read it. So, I bought it as a birthday present for my father for his eightieth birthday. After he opened his presents at his party, a few people started leafing through the book. My sister thought the book was interesting after reading some of the dichos (sayings); at least she didn’t judge the book by its cover alone, which is very pretty.
So, I bought myself a copy of the book and piled it on my stack of “to read” books. When I finally read it, I suffered from an identity crisis. I wasn’t like anyone of those Latinos in the book. Whenever I’d read about a person of Mexican descent, I’d think, okay, I’ll have something in common with this Mexican. But no! When I compare her life stories with mine, I question whether or not I’m actually Mexican!
When I was about sixteen, my friend Reinaldo stopped by my house early one summer morning after the school year had ended. Of course, I was sleeping because I was relaxing from another demanding year at school. He told me that he had found me a job at a fruit stand. I was surprised because I had never told him that I was looking for a job.
Rey worked on a fruit truck that drove through the neighborhood and sold fruits and vegetables curbside. As a sixteen-year-old young man, I was impressed by his well-paying job and how he was so proud of it, especially since Rey was only fifteen. Anyway, when they were buying their fruits and vegetables at the market before they started the day, the owner of a fruit stand asked Rey if he had any friends who spoke Spanish and English. The fruit stand was trying to attract Mexican customers since so many lived in the neighborhood. Rey immediately thought of me. Well, I liked the idea of working so I could have some money to spend during the summer.
Well, when I went to the fruit stand, the manager told me that the owner was on vacation. I would have to work three days a week: Saturdays and Sundays, and another day during the week as needed. My duties included unloading produce from delivery trucks and waiting on customers. If the customer were a Mexican, I would have to wait on them in Spanish. I don’t remember how much I earned, but it seemed like a lot of money to me at the time. The owner was supposed to give me a raise when he returned from vacation, the manager told me. I worked there all summer and never once saw the owner.
Well, at first there weren’t that many Mexican customers, but the manager would call me to wait on anyone who looked Mexican. He decided who was or wasn’t Mexican just by their appearance. He was judging people based only on their appearance. And I, as a Mexican, wasn’t always so sure if they were Mexican or not. This kind of bothered me until I realized that he was always right. Now that I am older and wiser, I realize that he was exercising good business sense.
By the end of the summer, many Mexicans were shopping at the fruit stand. My friend Rey would stop by occasionally when they ran out of some product on the truck, and they would buy it at cost from the fruit stand. He was so proud that he had found me such a fantastic job. And I was so thankful to Rey for thinking of me for this job!
What did I learn from this experience? I still haven’t quite figured it out yet. But I’m sure that I learned something.
I am not the most graceful of people. I was just getting this walking and talking thing down pat, when what do you think someone invents? A walking taco! Basically, you get a bag of Fritos piled with chili, lettuce, sour cream, and hot sauce. Walking tacos are very popular at carnivals and local sporting events in the greater Chicagoland area. Personally, I think of tacos as a sit-down kind of food that demands the eater’s complete and undivided attention because they are tricky to eat even while sitting down.
Anyway, I bought a walking taco the other day at my son’s football scrimmage game and I actually tried to eat it while walking; I wanted to see if there was truth in advertising. However, I don’t recommend this at all. Well, I was also holding an umbrella open because of the rain and I was carrying a can of pop, too. The walking taco was very tasty, but difficult to enjoy because I was afraid that I would drop either the umbrella, the can of pop, or God forbid, the walking taco. I accidentally spilled some chili on my shirt and couldn’t wipe the stain off because both my hands were full. Everyone knew what I had eaten. “How was that walking taco?” “Did you get any of the walking taco in your mouth?” Etcetera. My question is, does this qualify as Mexican food or American food?
Chicago USA 