My favorite Mexican food is birria.
More specifically: quesabirria.
Just a short walk from our house, a guy named Gabriel sets up a grill in front of his home nearly every morning and makes incredible quesabirria tacos—birria and melted cheese folded into crispy grilled tortillas.
We order ours con todo—loaded with cilantro, fresh onions, grilled onions, lime, and homemade salsa. I love these things. Sometimes I eat one for breakfast and buy another “to go” for lunch later.
Gabriel has a small table with three or four chairs, and over time we’ve become regulars at his makeshift taco stand. The place is rarely busy and feels like one of those best-kept-secret spots you almost don’t want to tell people about.
Watching Gabriel work is part of the experience. He reminds me of a precision sushi chef. His grill is tilted at exactly the right angle so juices collect where he wants them. Every movement has purpose. Nothing is wasted. The tacos come out impeccably consistent and beautiful every single time. And once the meat starts cooking, the smell drifting down the street makes patience almost impossible.
When I hand him money, he slips a fresh plastic bag over his hand before touching the food again, avoiding contamination from filthy pesos. He’s very businesslike while cooking, but always willing to answer our endless questions about salsa recipes or life on this traditional Mexican street.
One morning, I noticed a scruffy little dog hanging around nearby.
The dog looked old and rough around the edges, with obvious skin problems. I assumed it was a stray. Gabriel corrected me. It is not a street dog.
The dog belonged to an older woman named Erlinda who comes for tacos every day. Apparently, the dog knows the route and arrives on its own each morning before Erlinda gets there.
I loved that.
We miss our dogs from Shreveport. Thankfully, we found wonderful homes for all three before moving here.
Boo, our elderly chihuahua, now lives with my sister in Salt Lake City. Sofie, our lovable pit bull, and Coco—my “COVID therapy dog”—live with neighbors around the corner from our old house. I sometimes joke that: “We had three dogs, but now they’re in a better place.”
Meaning: with more attentive owners and probably better snacks.
One day, we finally met Erlinda and learned that her little “dude” was actually an approximately 13-year-old female named Lola.
Lola is tiny—about chihuahua size—but clearly a mixed breed with wiry fur, beautiful clear eyes, and not-great teeth. She has a remarkably tranquil personality.
She mostly looks for cool shady places to rest and seems completely trusting of people—even us strangers.
She behaves like a deeply loved companion dog.
Erlinda is a sweet older woman who always seems to wear the same black-and-white pantsuit—nice enough for church.
She often apologizes for being forgetful and for not being able to read.
Lola originally belonged to someone else in the neighborhood and was left behind, but the attachment between the two of them is obvious.
There is affection there.
Companionship.
Loyalty going both directions.
I asked Erlinda about Lola’s skin issues and learned she couldn’t really afford the treatment the dog needed. Erlinda sells used clothing once a week at a local market and gets by on very little.
So we offered to help.
Luckily, there’s a fantastic veterinarian right in our neighborhood.
We actually met her first at a karaoke night.
As one does.
She and her husband also own a goat farm that hosts tours and wine tastings, because apparently people in Mexico are allowed to have multiple interesting lives at the same time.
A few days later, we met Erlinda and Lola at the vet office.
Lola now has medication and a treatment plan involving medicated baths and oral meds.
We’re hoping she starts feeling much better over the next few months.
I’m really enjoying life here. And honestly, the best part—aside from Gabriel’s quesabirria—is the people and animals we meet along the way.
Living here can become a little selfish if we’re not careful. We could easily fill our days with food, recreation, hobbies, music, bike rides, and wandering beautiful streets.
But that gets old surprisingly fast. What feels more fulfilling is interacting with people and finding small ways to help where we can. We realize we are financially better off than many people here. We try to tip generously. We try to be respectful guests in this new country.
And now that we’re beginning to feel less like tourists and more like residents, it feels good to participate in the community in small ways.
A taco stand.
A little dog named Lola.
An elderly woman named Erlinda.
Somehow, this is starting to feel like home.
— Kent
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