Chapter 40: Corn Comes in Blue?
Chapter 40: Corn Comes in Blue?
Interstate 10, or I-10, is one of the major transcontinental routes running east to west across the southern United States, with a total length of approximately 2,460 miles, or about 3,960 kilometers.
Following this highway, one could travel all the way from California at its western end through New Mexico and Texas to Florida in the east.
This was my second time taking the eastbound lanes, after visiting Miguel’s engine shop during the Mustang restoration.
That was because Old Soul Upholstery—an upholstery shop specializing in vehicle seats and similar interior work, where I had made an appointment yesterday—was located in the small city of Lordsburg, New Mexico.
However, aside from the psychological sense of crossing into another state, the distance was roughly the same as driving from the warehouse to Phoenix. In fact, since the road was less congested, there was a good chance it would take even less time.
{Lordsburg 110 mi}
Dusty sat in the passenger seat, watching warily through the window, but once we properly entered the highway, he soon lay down.
Since it was still early in the morning, there were few vehicles on the road apart from large trucks transporting freight. At this rate, covering roughly 110 miles, or about 177 kilometers, should take no more than two hours.
I rested one arm halfway out the window and leaned my back slightly against the seat. The faded body of the Studebaker loaded onto the trailer appeared and disappeared in the rearview mirror.
My beloved Chevy C1500 was proving itself admirably as a versatile work truck, but unfortunately, it was a trim that lacked options such as cruise control.
I carefully adjusted the pressure of my ankle to maintain a speed of sixty miles, or about one hundred kilometers, per hour.
The so-called human cruise-control mode.
No traffic lights, no intersections, only a desert highway stretching endlessly eastward.
The blue sky extended without end above the vast plateau. As I watched the clouds slowly drift in the opposite direction, I almost had the illusion that it was not the car moving forward, but the earth sliding backward beneath us.
After driving for about an hour, I stopped briefly near Deming to refuel and buy something to eat. I also bought a bone-shaped treat for Dusty to chew on.
After his previous journey with Noah, the little guy had become quite accustomed to road trips.
Vroooom—
And so the human cruise-control mode resumed.
The farther east we went, the fewer saguaro cacti there were—the plants that were practically symbols of Arizona—and shrubs gradually began taking their place.
{WELCOME TO NEW MEXICO}
—The Land of Enchantment—
After nearly another hour of driving, a brown state sign finally announced that we had entered a new state.
Twitch, twitch—
As though even the scents drifting in from outside had changed, Dusty wiggled his small black nose from side to side.
New Mexico.
Despite its name, it was American land first explored and named by Spanish explorers.
It’s the same sky, so why does it look different?
If Arizona’s sky was a dark, intense oil painting, New Mexico’s looked lighter and more transparent, like diluted watercolor.
The occasional adobe-style buildings made it truly feel as though we had entered a new state.
(Translator’s Note: Adobe architecture — A building tradition associated with the American Southwest, Mexico, and other dry regions. Traditional adobe consists of sun-dried bricks made from earth, water, and organic material and produces thick, thermally insulating walls.)
Not long afterward, I exited I-10 and turned onto Railroad Avenue, which ran alongside the train tracks.
Warehouses belonging to what had once been a prosperous railway station stood abandoned all along the road.
Among them, I spotted a low, makeshift building with a large cowhide hanging in place of a sign.
“That must be it.”
{Old Soul Upholstery}
I parked near the entrance and approached. There was technically a sign, though it was less of a proper sign and more like words handwritten directly onto a blank wall.
Creak—
Holding Dusty in one arm, I opened the metal-framed door.
A heavy leather smell immediately rushed over me, mixed with the sharp scent of adhesive. Small scraps of leather and loose threads were scattered chaotically across the floor.
Clack-clack-clack-clack—
From farther inside came the ceaseless sound of a sewing machine running.
Are they in the back?
As I cautiously headed toward the workroom, a seat sample resting on a shelf suddenly caught my attention.
Did they make this seat here?
The stitching ran as straight as I-10, and the sharply formed corners did not have a single wrinkle.
Even to someone like me, who had no connection whatsoever to art, the type, texture, color, and pattern of the leather formed an almost frighteningly perfect combination.
This is absolutely top-tier quality.
While I was momentarily distracted by the seat—
“¿A quién busca?”
“Who are you looking for?”
A husky voice came from behind me.
It was Spanish.
When I turned around, I saw a pleasantly plump middle-aged woman with tightly curled brown hair standing there with a gentle expression.
“Hello. My name is Jason. I made an appointment through your website.”
The clock on the wall happened to be pointing to exactly ten.
“On. Line? Ah… ¡Mati! ¡Alguien te busca!”
“Mati! Someone’s here to see you!”
The woman shouted toward the back of the workroom in a booming voice.
A moment later, there was a click as the sewing-machine pedal stopped, and a large man abruptly stood up.
“Come on, Mamá! I told you not to call me Mati in front of customers!”
“Hello. I’m Jason. I have an appointment for ten o’clock today.”
I greeted the large, round-built man striding toward me.
He looked to be around my age, and both of his arms were covered in tattoos of needles, thread, and similar designs.
On top of that, half of his face was covered in a mass of curly beard, making him resemble some kind of modern-day bandit.
“Ahem! Good morning. My name is Mateo Calderón.”
The man answered in oddly clipped English. He had the distinctive accent of a Hispanic immigrant.
“Could we talk while looking at the car first?”
The GT Hawk’s interior was in a condition that simply could not be explained in words. Even if he refused the job, showing it to him directly would save both of us time.
“I’d like to restore everything inside. That includes the seats and the headliner.”
I opened the door of the GT Hawk parked outside and revealed the interior.
“Oh… I’ve never seen this model before. May I take a closer look?”
Mateo’s eyes began sparkling as soon as he saw the car.
He carefully pressed and touched various parts of the interior while letting out exclamations such as “¡Ay, Dios!” and “¡Madre mía!”
“My God!”
“Good heavens!”
“Do you think… it’s possible?”
I cautiously asked Mateo, whose expression had grown quite serious. I suddenly understood how Ethan must have felt while waiting to hear whether I would accept his request.
“Sí. Of course.”
Mateo answered with a broad smile.
Because of his thick, shaggy beard, I felt as though I were facing a smiling buffalo.
“First, I’ll match the seat leather to the exact texture and color of the leather on the doors. I’ll restore the stainless-steel instrument panel with the same engine-turned finish, and I’ll reproduce the other metal rings as faithfully to the originals as possible. ¿Sale?”
“Okay?”
“Haha, okay. Then all we need to do is settle the detailed schedule and price.”
There was nothing more I needed to add.
Everything I had wanted to request, and everything I had wanted to ask whether he could do, had already been addressed.
The estimate came to forty-five hundred dollars, including materials.
The number might sound expensive at first, but compared to other upholstery shops in the area, it was actually around average or even slightly cheaper.
Fortunately, Ethan also agreed to the estimate, allowing us to proceed with the contract immediately.
“If this restoration goes well, I’ll be able to keep bringing future projects here. I’m counting on you.”
I held out my hand after signing the contract.
If I intended to continue restoring cars, I needed a reliable shop to handle interiors. I sincerely hoped he would produce good results so I would not have to wander around searching for somewhere else.
“Do not worry. I may be young, but my experience is not.”
It was an amusing expression I had never heard before.
But there was unmistakable confidence behind it.
“All right. I’ll trust you. I’ll come back when the work is finished.”
I took his thick hand and shook it.
Then, just as I turned to leave the shop—
“¿Mati, el cliente se va sin comer?”
“Mati, is the customer leaving without eating?”
The voice of Mateo’s mother, whom I had met earlier, rang loudly from inside.
“Uh… Jason. My mother is asking whether you’re leaving without having a meal.”
“A meal?”
“¡Por aquí no hay dónde almorzar!”
“There’s nowhere around here to have lunch!”
Mateo’s mother grabbed me by the shoulder and practically forced me into a chair at a round table in one corner of the workroom as she continued speaking.
“She says there is nowhere nearby to eat lunch.”
What was he, some kind of translation robot?
Mateo continued relaying his mother’s words in the same stiff tone.
Then he added, “You can eat with us, if that is all right. Mexican food is delicious.”
Even the translator himself was inviting me to the meal.
Since I had lived in southern Arizona near the Mexican border until graduating from high school, I had at least a superficial understanding of their culture.
In Mexico, offering a guest food was considered both polite and a natural act of hospitality, as well as the beginning of a personal relationship.
However, this was the first time I had personally experienced it, so I was slightly flustered.
“Still… won’t there be too little food?”
My greatest concern was that they might not have packed enough because of me.
But I could not exactly sit at the table and merely pick at the food either.
“Bwahahaha! There is no need to worry! My mother brings an unbelievable amount of food!”
Mateo laughed loudly, as though he had never heard anything so ridiculous.
His voice boomed through the workroom like a scene from an opera.
“…All right. Since you’re insisting. Gracias, señora.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
I thanked Mateo’s mother in clumsy Spanish.
“My mother cannot speak English well, but she understands it. You may speak comfortably.”
Personally, I wished Mateo would speak a little more comfortably, but I merely nodded obediently.
What is this?
I stared in bewilderment at a food I had never seen before.
It was clearly some sort of lump of dough, but it was thick and shaped like a rugby ball, with a purplish-blue color.
It looked nothing like the yellow tortillas I was used to seeing.
“This is a tlacoyo. It is made with real blue corn from Mexico.”
(Translator’s Note: Tlacoyo — A traditional oval-shaped Mexican masa cake of pre-Hispanic origin, especially associated with central Mexico. It is commonly made from blue or white corn and filled with beans, cheese, or other ingredients before being cooked on a griddle.)
There were two unfamiliar terms in that single sentence.
Tlacoyo?
Corn came in blue?
But that was not the end of the unfamiliar food.
“Tome, póngalo encima y coma.”
“Here, put this on top and eat it.”
His mother scooped up a large spoonful of something resembling green vegetables and placed it on top of the tlacoyo.
“Put this on it before you eat. They’re nopalitos.”
Mateo translated while preparing one for himself at the same time.
“Nopalitos… Does that mean prickly pear cactus?”
(Translator’s Note: Nopalitos — Sliced or diced young pads of the prickly pear cactus, known as nopal in Spanish. They are widely eaten in Mexican cuisine in salads, stews, grilled dishes, and pickled preparations.)
“Oh, correct. Does Jason know some Spanish too?”
Of course not.
It was only because prickly pear cactus was also called nopal cactus in English.
Still, pickled cactus?
Cacti were everywhere in Arizona and New Mexico, but I had never once thought about eating one.
For the moment, I simply opened my mouth and took a large bite.
I had never been particularly reluctant to try unfamiliar food. Whenever I visited somewhere new, I always made a point of trying the local cuisine.
“This is… delicious.”
This experiment was a complete success.
The tlacoyo tasted similar to a thick tortilla, but the inside was chewier and far more savory.
The nopalitos, meanwhile, had a sharp acidity that jolted me awake, perhaps from lime juice, together with a strangely pleasant saltiness.
“No sabes comerlo. Así se come de verdad.”
“You don’t know how to eat it. This is how it’s really eaten.”
Mateo’s mother carefully watched the way I was eating before taking my plate away.
She swiftly added two more sauces and handed it back to me.
This time, I felt as though I could understand her even without Mateo’s translation.
You don’t know how to eat it. This is how you’re supposed to do it.
She was right.
I did not know exactly what had been added, but the nutty, mild brown sauce, the crisp cactus, and the freshness of the lime created an absurdly perfect balance.
“Wow… What is this?”
“Good, right? That sauce is made by grinding pumpkin seeds and black beans together. It is my mother’s specialty!”
“Yes, I’m amazed. It somehow tastes familiar, but at the same time, it’s like nothing I’ve ever eaten before.”
“Hehehehe.”
Only after seeing my astonishment did his mother put on a satisfied expression and begin concentrating on her own meal.
I had never dreamed that coming here to commission an interior restoration would lead to my enjoying such an authentic Mexican home-cooked meal.
Yet sitting together around the cramped round table and sharing sauces and dressed cactus somehow felt strangely familiar and nostalgic.
When I reached for my fourth tlacoyo, Mateo’s mother looked slightly surprised before bursting into hearty laughter.
“¡Este sí que come! ¡Eso, así!”
“Now this one really knows how to eat! That’s the way!”
This time, instead of giving a lengthy translation, Mateo merely raised his thumb high in approval.