Pablo El Churrero

A soft hiss sounds from the tall, blue propane tank that feeds the fire under the basin of hot oil. The slight Mexican man scoops some of the stiff yellow dough from a plastic bowl and feeds it into a metal tube suspended between four tall legs. This device resembles a Gatling gun and is pointed downwards toward the basin. As he turns the crank, a narrow band of dough is extruded like toothpaste from the hole at the bottom. After it reaches a length of about eight inches, he cuts off the ribbon with a spatula and lowers it into the bubbling oil. It curls to fit the contours of the basin and collects an edge of bubbles that pop and crackle as it cooks. He methodically repeats this operation until the surface is covered with the frying dough strips, pale backs facing up. These are churros, a cross between a doughnut and a fritter, and are a favorite Mexican treat.

My husband and I, long-time aficionados, stand on the cobbled street waiting for the fresh batch. We exchange morning greetings with the churrero. He does not make eye contact, but acknowledges our “Buenos días” with a nod as he watches the basin. The morning is warm and soft, the tropical air of this coastal town north of Puerto Vallarta just beginning to heat with the sunrise.

We introduce ourselves, bypassing the ritual handshake in deference to his busy and sticky hands. The churrero tells us his name is Pablo. He is neatly dressed in a light blue sweater and brown slacks. His face is a warm brown and his eyes lively, but he is slow to smile and all business as he attends his churros.

“¿Cuánto tiempo hace que es churrero?” How many years have you been a churro maker? my husband asks.

He answers with a math problem. “Tenía treinta y cinco años cuando comencé. Ahora, tengo sesenta y seis años.” He became a churrero when he was thirty-five years old. He is now sixty-six. Thirty-one years. His neatly combed hair shows no trace of gray. Only the web of wrinkles around his eyes gives his age away. I think of my thirty years of teaching and of the gray patch that already announces my fifty-eight years.

Pablo turns to flip the churros over, revealing their golden underbellies. “Tengo cuarenta nietos,” he tells us, forty grandchildren. He lives at the crossroads, where the main highway passes the entrance to San Francisco de Nayarit, the small town where we are staying.

The churros are ready and Pablo dips them from the oil, letting them drain on a glass plate set atop his blue handcart. While they are still warm, he transfers them to a shallow pan filled with coarse sugar and cinnamon, flipping them to coat both sides. His motions are spare and purposeful. “¿Cuántos?”he asks. How many? We each get three. He drops our churros into a plastic bag and my husband, Gary, counts out six pesos, about fifty-five cents.

We step aside to enjoy our bounty as Pablo does a brisk trade. I bite through the crispy exterior of my churro and experience the warm innards. My lips and fingers are soon glistening with oil and sugar crystals as I make fast work of my portion. A thirty-year connoisseur, I judge these among the best. My husband concurs.

It is seven o’clock. I hear the swish of brooms as shopkeepers sweep the sidewalks and sprinkle the streets to keep down the dust. A procession of vehicles from fancy SUV’s to bikes bump down Calle El Tercer Mundo, Third World Street, while schoolchildren file past on the sidewalk. Everyone greets Pablo as they pass. A plump boy in blue shorts and a white shirt wheels up on a scooter and buys four churros. A young couple buys twenty “para llevar,” to go. Pablo’s conversations are brief, limited to business.

As the school trade slows down, Pablo settles back into a white plastic chair, letting his body relax, spreading square, brown toes in his huaraches. We wipe the remains of our feast from fingers and mouths. “Muy buenos, los churros.” Great churros, my husband comments. We tell Pablo about our experience at the Wednesday market in Rincón de Guyabitos, where we suffered through undercooked churros that were definitely inferior to Pablos’.

“Solo silbar, no hace mulero.” Just because you can whistle doesn’t mean you’re a mule driver, he replies with an understated grin that doesn’t quite hide his pleasure at making a joke.

As he warms to us, Pablo tells us about his life in this small town affectionately known by locals as San Pancho. He has three sons and three daughters, and owns five houses in town. When he walks across the highway, he is in his other world, the tropical forest. The understory is his medicine cabinet, the place where he collects plants for his practice as a curandero, a traditional healer. His consultario, his office, is in his house at the crossroads.

I begin to warm to Pablo, this soft-spoken man, and begin to see beyond the image of my first impression. He has built this life on churros, the plants of the jungle, and a traditional wisdom that has its roots in the Indian cultures of Mexico.

“Dos litros de agua cada día, va al baño dos veces cada día, exercicio cada día para buena salud.” We get a dose of advice along with our churros. Two liters of water a day, eliminate twice a day, exercise daily—not far off from what my own doctor would say. He emphasizes each point with emphatic gestures of his strong brown hands and repeats his list twice. His sturdy body and bright eyes make me feel he practices what he preaches.

“¿Cuándo va usted a jubilarse?” Gary asks. When are you going to retire? Pablo shrugs and gives no answer. He has his property, his family is taken care of, and he greets his friends every day as he sits in the sun making his churros. This is the life.

The sun is more than warm now and it is time to leave. We thank Pablo for the churros and free advice. He looks up briefly and nods in acknowledgement. We stroll towards the beach, leaving him sitting on the corner, watching life go by. Pablo is a man who takes life one churro at a time.

— 2003

* * *

Gallery

Click on images to enlarge…