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December 24,2008

Viva Consuela

I have been told by those who can tell, that I have an addictive personality. If I smoked, I would spend a lot more time outdoors than currently. If I consumed alcohol, it’s safe to say I would not enjoy even the modest positions of responsibility I presently enjoy in the worlds of journalism or theatre.
Fortunately, I find the sensation of smoking repellent. I smoked for a couple of weeks for a play once, and cursed the stink on my hands for months therafter.
The taste of alcohol isn’t a whole lot more attractive, although a sip of wine or champagne every couple of months has been known to pass my lips. Back in November, at our time share in the Virgin Islands, I was introduced to something called a mango colada. Fortunately, no bartender in Uxbridge knows how to make one.
So I have been able to avoid the most dangerous consequences of my addictive personality - until recently.
Now, almost every weekday at about 11:30 (in order to beat the noon rush), you will see me strolling across the big municipal parking lot behind Coffee Time, accompanied by my faithful mutt Lacey, headed for that little green shop beside the TD bank. I have become hopelessly addicted, I shamefacedly confess, to the most savoury of sins - Meat Merchant chili.
Those of you who have partaken of this delicacy will understand immediately the hoplessness of my situation. For once you have tasted the chili at 3 Brock Street West, no other meal quite measures up (unless you’re a vegetarian, of course, in which case I suggest you read no further).
Larry, the boss butcher at the Merchant, indeed the founding Merchant himself, tells us, his faithful patrons, that the chili is made by the barrelful by his devoted spouse. He once told me the genius’ name; although I can’t recall it at present, I’m sure it must be Consuela or Conchita or something Latin American in flavour. A woman of any other ethnic persuasion could not hope to create such a dish.
No matter if a blizzard be blowing beyond the Cosmos window; as soon as I lift the lid on this culinary marvel, I am transported to the Sonora Desert, taking a break around the campfire after a hard morning of rounding up rattlesnakes and roadrunners.
Not that Consuela’s chili is super spicy. It doesn’t burn off your taste buds so you can’t enjoy the chocolate milk or butter tart to follow (my addictions to these are less insistent). But it’s fiery enough that even on the worst of the frigid days we’ve suffered through this winter, it immediately warmed both my innards and my outards (if that’s not a word, it should be). Of course, it also makes me want to take a siesta, which is entirely consistent with my feline lifestyle.
There was one day a month or so ago when I mosied into the Meat Merchant, sidled up to the counter and waited for the clerk to ask, “Large chili?”
She said nothing. I waited. I waited.
“Well?” I finally asked.
“No chili today.”
I was devastated. My day was ruined. I’m surprised the Cosmos came out that week at all.
But now an even greater calamity has come to pass. The woman in the music studio next to the Cosmos has become pregnant. Last month she loved the smell of Consuela’s chili as much as I; now, it makes her nauseous. Monday through Wednesday, when she teaches over the lunch hour, I am forbidden to bring chili to the Cosmos office. Only twice a week is it permitted... twice a week!
So I am very much looking forward to the arrival of this child, for three reasons. One, I’m sure it will be as attractive and brilliant as its parents. Two, I can resume eating chili whenever the heck I want. And three, the kid owes me... big time.
We addictive personalities can hold grudges a very long while.