The five gallon bucket seems to be the carrying method of choice for all kinds of things around here. If you look around, you will see many people toting what used to be a white plastic bucket, so old and well-carried that all trace of the label marking its original contents are gone. The top is usually covered with a frayed towel that was once a brilliant white, but many washings and constant use has rendered a dull grey. The primary bucket carriers are the car wash guys, and the bucket makes perfect sense and wouldn't make anyone think twice. But there are also many people selling things, usually food things, from scuffed, 5-gallon buckets. I used to ask myself what kind of crazy person would buy something from such a vessel. But now, I'm that kind of crazy.
My first foray into bucket cuisine was the Flan Man. I couldn't resist the flourish and bow with which he presented his "sample" to me, dramatically lifting the lid from his tray to reveal one perfect flan, cascading with caramel. I looked a little askance at the bucket he was carrying, and then bought one anyway. The flan was such creamy perfection – that flan I had been searching for all of my life – that I didn't care where it came from. That was it. I was a bucket convert.
Shortly after that I bought empanadas from the handicapped man wearing a flamboyant caricature of a western shirt and polyester pants – God bless him. He carried caramel empanadas and cookies in bags in a scuffed bucket that jounced against his leg with every awkward step through the sand on the beach. The pastry was sooooo flaky and buttery and the cajeta just perfect.
I have also bought shrimp the size of your fist for a ridiculously low price that were ocean fresh and incredibly sweet. The seller carried them in a bucket of ice covered with the ubiquitous towel. When he first offered them to me I said no, but then he pulled out five or so, letting them dangle by their whiskers from his fist, his arm heavy with the weight of the gargantuan crustaceans. I inspected them, and they were some of the freshest I have ever laid eyes on.
I used to ignore the tamale lady that came by our house droning "tamales...tamales" like some kind of dirge for the dead, until I was in the garage one day when she walked by. From street level, I could see – and smell – the steam wafting from around the edges of the towel. It was all over for me then. I bought some. And they were great.
The next time you see someone toting a modest, scuffed bucket calling out some phrase you don't understand, don't turn the other way. Give them a curious look and get them to lift that frayed towel to give you a peek. You won't be sorry.
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|SAdministrator |m-d-Y H:i:s jenniferAmen brother.
Everyone has to choose the type of place that is right for them to live, but for us, that is definitely not locked behind gates. You just miss too much that way.
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Larry