ABSTRACT
As a Latina of Mexican and Puerto Rican heritage, I was always impressed by the palpable sensation that Mexican cooking had the power to afford a safety zone, a sensory dimension in which the presence of Mexican cultural patrimony meets with qualified tolerance. Mexican restaurants seemed as satellite consulates, where the main event was the food, but a residual side effect was the small window of permission open to other areas of expression such as language, music, fashion, visual art, and the geophysical presence of mestizo bodies both at work and leisure with family and friends. The cross-cultural and unembarrassed excitement for Mexican culinary achievements represented a situational moratorium on animosity toward Latina/o, mestiza/o, and indigenous people, where the fantasy of homogeneity was lifted as all the gathered tribes reveled in the sensual spell of salsa and cilantro. But the irony
was a sad one. If only bordered bodies could circulate as freely and exaltedly as burritos! If only our children were as beloved as our chalupas!
