Nicholas Martinez
Google
The Pastry War was a loss. That's what it was supposed to be. The newly minted Mexican Republic lost to France back in the 1840s but held onto a grudge for 20 more years before engaging in an armed conflict again. And win.
As if struck by the Light Rail bolting by, I stop in my tracks & gaze at the neon sign beckoning me into it's dimly lit vibrancy. What history are they sharing with that? Green neon glints off the two slender-framed bike racks out front.
In Downtown Houston, it was weird to see a bar referencing a 19th-century conflict. The past isn’t one thing to any one person, on either side of the border. So I obviously have to go inside. I'm on my way somewhere else, but who cares. Days pass by before I enter. But I go.
The small entryway room has two-toned walls: white on the top horizontal & red on the bottom. It reminds me of any quaint town in Latin America, not solely the interior of Mexico. The opposite wall of this antechamber has exposed brick. But this room is filled by a pool table with unbalanced pool sticks jutting out of their stand. The entryway window transoms are tied open with string. I pass under their single-line marquee says "Mezcaleria" in a blocky Futura Condensed font.
History is messy. The US helped the French blockade Mexico for their 600,000-peso complaint of damages. Like Remontel, there's no recourse for Mexico being more than one thing.
I see Nahua masks behind cages, hidden from the cultural exchange. Unlike the limes and lemons in their cages free to grab at, for us to consume. These masks are locked away. You could almost forget that history is a bunch of stories at the same time. Like that, by the end of the Spanish conquest, mescal was produced in secret.
I walk into the main room with the bar. On the wood slat wall flanking the bar, they're projecting a B&W reel of amateur rodeo footage spliced together with scenes from the 2005 film "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada". My memory flashes back to me watching that movie with my then-alive abuelo in the Spanish Meadows Nursing Home in Brownsville.
I snap out of it as the barkeep asks what I want while she's in the midst of compiling another set of 3 cocktails. I figure that the house margarita makes the most sense to start out. On the rocks. Salt on the rim.
I step back toward the wall across from the bar & see a framed map of Mexico. I study it. The barkeep quickly passes me my predictable order.
I walk to the booths with scenes using the iconography of Día de Muertos, depicting a Mexico with bandoleers, sombreros, and floral dresses placed on the campesinos' esqueletos. It’s a knock-off of the Jarabe Tapatio etching by Jose Posada, born in Aguascalientes 14 years after The Pastry War ended. I can also see a skeletonized riff on that painting of Santiago Matamoros charging thru a band of Moors at the Battle of Clavijo.
House marg is absolutely delicious. No question. A perfectly balanced blend of silver tequila, limes, & agave. Even the salt's got citrus to it. Before taking a drink, my grandpa would press his thumb into a small pile of salt he’d poured onto a saucer. He’d lick his thumb then drink his beer & tell me a story of his—one I’d most likely heard many times before. I always thought the licking was gross.
For my 2nd drink, I order an Alipus San Baltazar mezcal in a cup. The backroom has the same metal-top porcelain tables seen thru-out the bar. The same string lights strung up hanging down criss-crossing across the ceiling. There's also a 2nd pool table. And there’s that half-VW Beetle I’ve seen on Instagram before. They wallpapered the back wall with lowbrow newspapers, comics, adverts, & lucha libre graphics. Like the caged religious masks greeting you, the lucha libre masks are the religious, mythological, & economical vehicle they need to operate like they need to.
I finish my copita of mezcal, but not before pouring a little salt onto the bar counter and taking some up with my thumb. I lick it and leave.
Pastry War FTW.
