…And wrapped inside of a hot steaming empanada. That’s what Arcadio McConnell now felt like. With his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, he couldn’t tell if the Chili Fiesta events organiser Valeria Fonseca was trying to cook him like the delectable garlicky beef filling of an empanada.
He squirmed in his chair and the entire demountable office creaked from the adjustment of weight distribution.
Felix sat quietly in his chair next to Arcadio, and focused on trying to breathe the stifling soup which was the air.
Completely unfazed by the heat, Valeria sat behind her desk flipping through a document on a clipboard. Infused with pure professionalism, she was a pleasant and attractive lady, besides an imminent proclivity to frown whenever she looked up at Arcadio.
’So, you’re quite the social media food sensation, Mr. McConnell?’ Valeria started. ‘When will we be seeing a bit of content? I mean, I haven’t seen much since a taco you had near the airport?’
Arcadio squirmed in his seat again.
’All in good time, of course, Valerie,’ he said. ‘May I call you Valerie?’
’No you may not,’ said Valeria. ‘It’s Valeria, or Miss Fonseca if you may.’
’Great song, though,’ Arcadio said. ‘Winwood, he’s the man.’
’What?’ Valeria slapped down her clipboard.
’Steve Winwood,’ Arcadio attempted to clarify. ‘Music legend. Incredible vocalist, highly proficient keyboard player. I remember the first time I ate a chicken and leek pie. That same night I heard the music of Winwood. Mother was cooking to the sound of her old Hi-Fi system. I couldn’t believe my ears or my taste buds. “Arc of a Diver” and a short crust base. Wow, what a combo-.’
’A prefer him with Traffic,’ Valeria cut Arcadio off. ‘Steve solo feels too overproduced to me.’
Good lord… Who is this woman I’ve stumbled upon?? Arcadio thought.
Sweat beads were beginning to tumble down his forehead again. He pulled at his shirt collar as some way to increase ventilation.
’Any chance we could crack a window in here, sister?’ he said. ‘It’s as hot as a habanero.’
’Hah!’ Valeria scoffed with amusement. ‘If you think one of those baby peppers means hot, then you’re in for a treat today, Mr. McConnell.’
’I can handle the heat,’ Arcadio winked at her, but she was un-charmed by the sweat teeming down his countenance and stinging his eyes.
’On that note,’ she said. ‘While I’m thinking of it: I need to organise what sort of heat taming beverage you would like to correspond to your chili pepper judging at three-thirty this afternoon. What do you need?’
’Milk,’ Arcadio started. ‘Full cream, full fat, whatever you can get that is closest to actual cream. I’ll need some ice too.’
’Excellent,’ said Valeria. ‘Now onto the rest of your itinerary for the festival.’
Meanwhile, Felix hadn’t been listening to a word said between his tubby, mustachioed director and Miss Fonseca. He was feeling quite faint and possibly on the verge of passing out because of overheating and dehydration.
He focused on a spider web in a high corner of the room and wondered where its inhabitant was.
Now, on the exterior of Fonseca’s scorching hot-box office, Arcadio and Felix were filled-in with the events and general schedule of the weekend (Well, at least Arcadio was. Felix now more-so understood the limits of his consciousness).
’Beverage. We must go forth,’ blurted Arcadio. ‘My brain is jerky.’
Our duo forged ahead in search of a quencher, but soon realised the Chili Fiesta vendors of spicy eats and treats were not purveying even the simplest bottle of Epura water.
Frustrated and unable to search anymore, Arcadio and Felix stopped at the nearest vendor with a drinks fridge. The staff were busy cooking and assembling sopes with refried beans, a generous crumbling of queso fresco cheese, and a green ghost pepper segment (from whole: neatly quartered); one extreme little snack for the senses. Arcadio would get to these ASAP, after liquids.
’Alright, Felix,’ he said. ‘Modelo, Corona, Pacifico, or… Lala Yomi? What is that?’
’Choco milk, it’s good for the chili heat,’ Felix said. ‘But not for me. Pacifico, lo antes posible.’
’Pacifico,’ Arcadio yelled over the din of adjacent customers to the young lady at the cash register. ‘Cuatro, por favor.’
By now, Arcadio had just about exhausted the extent of his Spanish vocabulary. He rarely ever wanted any less than four of something.
The beers were swiftly uncapped and keenly grasped by Arcadio and Felix, one in each hand. The sheer feeling of the chilled glass bottles was rapturous.
’Down the hatch, buddy,’ said Arcadio, clinking a bottle neck-to-neck with Felix’s.
Arcadio’s first refreshment evaporated quickly. A long suckle, coupled with the bottom pointing to the sky drained it down.
Felix, on the other hand, took large gulps, one after another, while holding the other beer against his face for cooling effect.
They felt better, and they proceeded to order some ghost pepper sopes from the vendor.
’We’ll share a tray, Felix. It’s on me,’ said Arcadio.
Maybe “Mr. Greed” isn’t so bad, after all, Felix thought.
The tray of sopes came and three of them went before Felix could even enjoy the first one. The ravenous gullet of Arcadio vacuumed them away with ease.
Those little masa harina bases, topped with rich refried beans, and soft white cheese, were incredible. Any normal human could consume ten of them no problem, but it was the kick of the quarter of a green ghost pepper (with seeds) that deterred the amateurs. That was the unique difference here.
In lieu of things like fresh tomato, avocado, onion, and salsa; the ghost added a hellish pop not designed for those with low heat resistance. This was street food for casual demons.
Arcadio was well seasoned to this sort of culinary heat, although this particular kick crept up on him. Those capsaicin compounds were sticking nicely to his firey tongue and throat.
He couldn’t help but notice Felix dealing with the hot sopes in a cool and relaxed manner. All of the sopes were now gone, and so were the beers.
Felix looked around him at the people talking and eating, and he smiled as if the world around him was… E-A-S-Y. He was drunk.
You see, Felix was a stark contrast in bodily structure to Arcadio. He was a whole foot shorter, and built like a string bean. A couple of beers drank so quickly soaked in fast.
Arcadio wondered if any subsequent content filmed by Felix would be up to standard for posting. Will he be able to frame everything just the same?
'Those sopes were grrreat,’ said Felix, smiling ear-to-ear. ‘Should we have more?’
’No, let’s move on,’ Arcadio said. ‘We’ll grab something else on the way to this torta making session we have with the chef at La Casa del Pavo… You good to walk, buddy?’
Thanks for reading “Arcadio’s Gastronomia” (Part IV) and Slipping Into Fiction. Please remember to share with a friend, or simply comment and tell us what you think.