As I walk up the stairs of the 116 St subway station, I discover a different version of my own little memories. Although nothing looks familiar, everything feels close.
Every sign down the street is written in Spanish. Hispanic accountant offices, a funeral home, clothing and food shops, travel agencies and restaurants, and just like in Mexico, street vendors occupy every corner.
At the carnicería [butcher shop], they sell everything from cecina, salted and dried beef meat, to quesillo, semi-hard thread fresh cheese typical from the Oaxaca region. I ask the attendant if they also have añejo cheese, a firm aged Mexican cheese, and he proudly points to something that very much resembles it.
Across the street there’s tortas compuestas, a sort of Mexican sandwich, freshly made carnitas tacos, flan, a vanilla-caramel jello, aguas frescas, fruit based beverages, and wide variety of pan de dulce, sweet pastries. Astonished, I realize they even have ojaldras, typical pastries from November’s Day of the Death celebration. In March? WOW, you couldn’t find that in Mexico!
At first glance this could be another street of many Mexican cities. A short subway ride and the over two thousand miles between NY and Mexico have suddenly disappeared!
Feeling almost a local, I stop at the corner of 116 St and 3rd to eat a quesadilla at the stand of Doña Mariagela. Under an improvised blue plastic roof, Doña Mariagela, bucket of masa by her side, makes fresh every tortilla she serves. She fills them with cheese and the fillings of your choice; I get one with papas con rajas, potato and chile peppers.
While I await she asks me how long am I visiting. With surprise I ask how did she know I don’t live here. Always smiling, she answers I look Mexican but not “from here Mexican.” I wonder what does “from here Mexican means?”
As I continue chatting I realize for Doña Mariagela it means belonging to a country she no longer knows. She has spent most of her life in Harlem and talks of Mexico as one does of exotic lands. She cooks with what other’s memories recall and relies on new arriving Mexican immigrants to assess the authenticity of her food.
After I finish my quesadilla she asks how it was.“Delicious”, I answer, “just like the ones I eat at Cholula’s market”.
“Cholula”, she repeats, “I one saw a picture of that place.”
Suddenly the two thousand miles between NY and Mexico seem more like a river of years, lost traditions and forgotten friends. Listening to Doña Mariagela Mexico sounds like a remote land and I feel like an uninvited guest; ashamed for remembering what for her is only a tale.
Yet we both smile at the sight of my salsa dirty hands and my empty plate. For a brief second, I feel close again. It is then I realize the only Mexico we share was in that plate.













