It was nine o’clock before dinner was served, but the Pollo Guadalajara was well worth the waiting. Unlike the majority of Mexican dishes, it was seasoned lightly but perfectly, with both the celery and apple flavor distinguishable in the sauce.
We lingered over Turkish coffee and brandy long after Doña Amalia had dismissed the servants for the night. We had just risen to go when there was a knock at the door. “Who can be calling at this hour?” she exclaimed in surprise. Before she could reach the door, it was flung open and into the room burst two slight youths who wore black masks and carried efficient-looking pistols.
Doña Amalia stopped short, towering majestically over the intruders who appeared no more than mere boys. She was nothing short of regal in her black gown and flashing jewels when she inquired formally and a shade ironically, “Que quieren Ustedes?” literally, what do your graces wish?
“Sus joyas,” replied one in a rather wavering voice.
“My jewels?” She made a gesture toward her diamond and ruby earrings, then moved quietly toward a wall cabinet. “I have some here,” she said. Lord Freddy shot me a glance that was slightly amused and seemed to say that the situation was under control; just as Doña Amalia turned from the cabinet, he made a lightning move in the direction of the young bandits. The next few minutes held more Hollywood drama than I’ve ever seen on the screen. For Doña Amalia had the two youths covered with a huge, silver-mounted pistol, and Lord Freddy, with the speed and grace of a cat, aided by an expert knowledge of jujitsu which I hadn’t known he possessed, had thrown one youth over his shoulder and caught the other by the coattail as he started to flee.
Doña Amalia tossed the pistol on a sofa and swooped down on the prostrate youth, sprawling on the floor. She ripped the mask from his face, gathered him up by the coat collar rather as a mother cat picks up a kitten, and sitting down in the nearest chair, proceeded to spank the young bandit soundly.
“Now,” she exclaimed, standing the culprit on his feet and speaking to him in the familiar and not the formal Spanish, “Thou, Juanito, thou little one, go home to thy mother, Doña Francisca, who earns the living honorable by washing laundry todos los dias in the river. It is,” she added, laughing, “past bedtime.” And grasping him by the shoulders, she marched him to the door where Lord Freddy still held the other squirming little gangster, and pushed them both out—almost gently.
Doña Amalia turned to us and smiled. “Lo siento mucho,” she spoke her re-regrets. “Will you have a brandy?” She poured three glasses with a hand that was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar.
Lord Freddy bowed deeply, extravagantly, to Doña Amalia, raised his glass, and with frank admiration in his glance and voice, said, “To the most gallant Arabian lady in Mexico! Viva! Viva Mejico!”
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