The sala faced the west and was rather dim in the mornings so I did not immediately catch the full implication of Freddy’s gift. He was accompanied by a tall, dashing, and handsome young man who swept off his sombrero and bowed deeply to me. “Don Joaquin Romero,” he said, “á su servicio.” Then I saw nestled under his arm a small red fox.
“Y’know,” drawled Lord Freddy, “in my distant and frivolous youth I rode with the most famous hunt in northern England, but actually I consider fox hunting the most asinine of sports. Sometimes I think it is the most barbarically civilized, or the most civilizedly barbaric game in the world. I’m rather inclined to agree with Oscar Wilde: the unspeakable after the uneatable. But,” he said, “when I saw Don Joaquin in the cantina with this little fox, I couldn’t resist the vixen.”
Don Joaquin held out the fox to me. ” She is,” he declared, “muy mansa—very tame—she will be for you the pet encantadora—the enchantress.” It was obvious that he thought all gringos with their love of animals somewhat mad.
As I took the little fox in my arms, she looked up at me with pleading golden eyes and then with a shiver tucked her head under my arm; the little body was rigid with fright. Even through the luxurious red coat one could feel the cold of fear. I knew in that instant that the little fox would never become friendly, that I could never tame her, but there was nothing to do but thank Lord Freddy for his gift.
Since we were having guests for luncheon—the town lawyer, who was also the local judge, and his wife—I asked Don Joaquin if he, too, would not stay. He would be honored and enchanted, so leaving him with Lord Freddy to carry on a conversation as best they might, I departed to supervise Angelita’s activities in the kitchen. The soup I knew was perfect, for I had watched it being made the day before and had sampled it rather generously.
Sopa de Garbanzos (Chick-pea Soup)
Soak 1 ½ cups carefully picked-over chick-peas in cold water for 5 hours. Drain, cover with fresh water, and soak overnight. Pick over and wash 2 pounds of spinach, removing the stems carefully, and place the spinach dripping from cold water into a saucepan. Add 1 medium-sized onion, sliced, 1 small green pepper sliced very finely and free from seeds and ribs, 1 cup beef broth, 1 ½ tablespoons leaf lard, salt and pepper, and the drained chick-peas. Cover, then bring to a boil; stir in 1 quart rich chicken stock. Cover again, bring to a rapid boil, lower the flame, and let the soup simmer for about 1 hour, or until the chick-peas are tender. Angelita served it piping hot in preheated Mexican pottery bowls with ripe olives, and, of course, tortillas to be dipped in hot chile. I deeply shocked Angelita by adding a touch of my own—cutting the tortillas in strips and frying them in deep fat until they were crisp like potato chips, which brought out all the rich nutty flavor of the corn.
The rest of the luncheon also seemed to be well under control. There were squash and corn cooked together in the Mexican manner, and an assortment of cold barbecued meats we had bought at market. It was always advisable, I had found, when having Mexican guests for meals, to plan your menu with dishes which could successfully stand the strain of waiting for guests who were invariably late.
The voluble Don Juan Sarmiento Castillo and his dark, vivacious wife were only a little over an hour late in arriving for luncheon. This lack of punctuality in arriving for a specially prepared meal, not only in Mexico, but in all of Latin America, is something I frankly do not understand. Once I invited my friend, Doña Rutila Nieto, for a two o’clock luncheon. Angelita and I had taken great pains with it because Doña Rutila was a newcomer from Mexico City; she was an urban, gracious lady who sent me by her servants great baskets of fruit and flowers from her gardens. She also instructed me subtly in the art of Mexican etiquette—such things as never leaving a house too abruptly. One should linger at least half an hour in conversation at the door, then backing out into the street, never forgetting to turn, bow and wave several times. I waited until four o’clock for my guest, and in the face of making a terrible breach of etiquette, sent Angelita to find out what was wrong. Angelita reported that just as soon as Doña Rutila finished cutting the roses she would be promptly at my house. It goes without saying that the cheese soufflé went by the board.
It was with some difficulty that I herded my guests to the luncheon table on the upper terrace. Don Juan, being a jurist and of a philosophical turn of mind, was interested in the fox Lord Freddy had brought me. Why did we want a fox? I explained that we thought it would be charming, if the fox could really be tamed, to have it as a playmate for the dog and cat, who were already good friends. We knew, we assured him, of many instances of strange animal friendships; I quoted Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa and the classic relationship of her tame gazelles, gibbons, and birds that lived in harmony with her hunting dogs. But apparently the gulf between Latin and Anglo is increased, not bridged, by a totally different conception of animals. To the Latins animals are strictly utilitarian—for food or work.
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