“English lessons, I think.” And in time Lord Freddy and I found ourselves teaching English to all the village notables.
At night in the Mexican Sierra one sleeps comfortably under several blankets, but can luxuriate in shirt sleeves in the brilliant morning sun. The crystal-clear air of the Plaza was as exhilarating as champagne; the turquoise sky accented the green of the orchards on the hillsides, with the darkness of the pines in the further distance. The ancient cathedral occupied one side of the square, the other sides were lined with shops of various kinds under their old world portales. We glanced in all of them until we came to a corner shop, its metal doors rolled up like window shades to display the brilliant cotton goods and gay blankets that packed the shelves.
Behind the counter was a large and handsome woman, almost majestic in her proportions. Her skin was a clear, rich olive, dark eyes brightly intelligent, and a charming smile revealed flashing white teeth. She was engaged in instructing two dark youths in packing large quantities of bright cotton cloth, work shirts, and trousers into two huge bundles for a pair of white-pajamaed hill Indians. From the conversation that went on as the two men took their bundles to leave, it was obvious that they were taking the goods on credit.
When they had gone, she turned her bright eyes on us and said, “They are a remarkable people, these Indios; they take thousands of pesos worth of goods from my shop. They cannot read, nor write, nor figure, but never have I lost ni un centavo. I am,” she added graciously, “Doña Amalia Zacharias de Lases, a su servicio.”
In the course of a half hour’s purchasing of blankets against the cool nights, we learned of a house to be had in the village; Doña Amalia knew of an excellent cook whom she would send to us until ours arrived. Her friendliness was a heart-warming thing when she used the old Spanish expression—mi casa es su casa—my house is your house—which she proved was not an empty phrase by asking us to dinner that night. "My husband Don Miguel is in Mexico City on business. I will send a servant to the hotel for you at seven.”
As we walked back through the charming little Plaza with its tinkling fountain and borders of gay flowers, Lord Freddy looked distinctly bemused. He finally glanced at me with his rather rare, charming smile and remarked, “I believe reahlly that I’m going to fall in love with Doña Amalia. Fahncy finding such worldly charm in these remote hills. I am curious to know more.”
In time, of course, we did—over Turkish coffee nearly every afternoon in her shop. Hers was a romantic, never-ending story with all the flavor of the tales of the Arabian Nights, for in truth Doña Amalia was Arabian. Her grandfather had been a sheik in Syria; bitter tribal feuds had wiped out not only the greater number of the elders of her family, but with them herds of camels, horses, land, and wealth. Her father had brought his family to start life over again in Mexico when Doña Amalia was still a child. Later, in a town called Tulancingo, I saw evidence of the manner in which the Arabs who came to Mexico prospered. They had many textile factories and homes that looked like miniature mosques. One almost expected a muezzin to appear at dawn and sunset to call the faithful to prayer.
Doña Amalia’s living quarters above her shop were entered from the rear through a walled courtyard which also had the flavor of Old Spain that pervaded the little town. The old Indian servant who had come for us ushered us into an enormous living room furnished in rather flamboyant taste but with an eye for creature comfort. There were massive shiny mahogany tables, but also deep comfortable chairs and sofas. When Doña Amalia swept into the room in a smart black dinner gown that looked as though it might have come from New York or Paris, with diamond and ruby earrings and bracelet, Lord Freddy rose and bowed as though he were in a London drawing room, and not Zacualtipán.
There were delicious rum cocktails of the Bacardi made in Mexico. Our hostess’ conversation was studded with little gems of wit, plays on words, and pithy proverbs which taxed every ounce of ingenuity I possessed to translate for Freddy, whom I suspected might reahlly be falling in love with the handsome, dynamic woman.
When I told her that Lord Freddy was collecting Mexican recipes, she swept over to him and laughing, lightly kissed him on the cheek. “How fortunate that I am giving you a very special dish tonight. Come with me and see it prepared.” She flung open a door to the dining room where the table was being laid by a pretty maid and at a side table an old Indian woman was busy over a charcoal table stove.
“Sometime,” said Doña Amalia, “I shall give you Pollo Cubana or the Castillane de Madrid, but tonight it is Pollo Guadalajara, where I learned to make it years ago.” We watched the old woman work and sniffed the savory odor as our hostess explained the process:
Heat 6 tablespoons olive oil in a deep iron pan. Into this goes a piece of dried red pepper of, say, half the size of a small green pepper. Two tender young broilers disjointed, washed and patted dry, lightly salted and peppered, are seared well on all sides. Cover the pan and cook over a low flame for 15 minutes. (This is a good chafing dish recipe.) Then pour over the chicken 2 tablespoons good brandy and set it aflame. When the flame dies out, pour in 1/3 cup rich chicken broth and arrange over the chicken pieces small potatoes, quartered, a few carrots, quartered, 6 or more mushroom caps, halved crosswise, and over these arrange 2 medium-sized apples, sliced, then top with 1 cup chopped green celery leaves. Cover tightly, cook very slowly, and do not stir. When the vegetables and chicken are tender—in about 30 to 35 minutes—stir in 1/2 cup good claret, cover again, and cook for 5 minutes longer. Taste for seasoning; then lift the meat and vegetables to a hot deep platter. Add 1/2 cup hot chicken stock to the juice in the pan to make approximately 1 cup. Bring to a boil, then lightly mash the celery greens and apples into the juice, rub through a fine sieve, stir in a pony of brandy, bring to a quick boil, and pour over the chicken and vegetables.
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