For some men, it’s a 1969 Shelby Cobra GT 350. For others, it’s a 10-point whitetail buck. What gets my blood moving is different from that of most great American males of the new millennium. Grocery stores make my heart race. Case in point: On Thanksgiving morning, my friend Connie and I had to make a last-minute run to fetch some eggs to finish a pecan pie. We were in Las Cruces, a locale known more for its discount pedicures than its epicures. Maybe it was fate or that the emporium gods were smiling on me, but Connie said, “We should try this new place that opened up a few weeks ago.”
I expected little. I frequent my Albertson’s and Sunflower Market, hit the co-op when I feel all eco-local-friendly, dare to go to the Whole Foods Market when I have extra dough and drop in to say hi to Sam’s Club at least once a month to stock up on items that can only fit on a sled. What could any store, especially outside the 505, do for me?
When I walked into Pro’s Ranch Market, I dropped to my knees and, once I stopped weeping, called my wife Lala to tell her to pack her bags. Imagine Sam’s and Whole Foods had a threesome with a handsome Mexican dandy on their honeymoon in Cancún. Ranch Market would have been the miraculous offspring. The store pipes in festive mariachi music, and the shiny streamers hanging from the ceiling fans make the place look like an oversized fiesta.
“We can never leave,” I told Connie as we passed the little café where entire familias were feasting. Women in white pounded fresh corn and flour tortillas on a hot griddle, so you could either take them home or eat them there in a carnita taco with freshly made pico de gallo or salsa verde. Even though we had just finished breakfast, I almost ordered one for my brothers in white-bread America who would never even get a chance.
Across from La Cocina sat a bamboo-themed shack offering “Aguas Frescas”—a goddamn juice bar.
“This can’t be happening,” I said to Connie, watching people sip fresh beet and carrot juice or more traditional Hispanic drinks such as horchata and tamarindo.
“It gets even better.” Connie led me to the meat counter, which was twice as long as any butcher’s in pinche Santa Fe and 10 times sexier. First thing I spotted was a pig formed completely out of chorizo and then, in the case next to it, a whole cow’s head, complete with eyeballs and a thick tongue sticking out of its mouth. We staggered down the line of cuts—beef and pork and chicken—to the mother lode: hot and cold running lard. You could take your fat home in tubs or white blocks or, if you’re fixin’ to fry, still warm in pints and quarts.
“God bless Mexamerica,” I said and crossed myself.
I can’t go to any store and not think of my father, who taught me to zoom in on price per pound or ounce. I knew that, with a little cultural sensitivity training, my dad would love Ranch Market the way I do. Six pounds of yams? One American dollar. Freshly fried tortilla chips and some homemade salsa to go? Half the price of most places in this stupid fancy hamlet where I choose to reside.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but to get to this man’s stomach, you need to go through his wallet. I grabbed what I could eat in 24 hours, sadly bypassing the baby squid in the best seafood section east of Pike Place Market. And like any good lover, I forgot what I had originally come for. Eggs were not in my basket, but their absence gave me a good excuse to turn the car around and visit one more time.