going bare

I have walked past the storefront hundreds of times.

It is on one of my walking routes -- and just two doors away from our local bakery: La Tanda. Rumor had it that I could find some spices there that were otherwise difficult to obtain. But I never stopped.

I did not because the shop's name tripped over one of my prejudices. Bare Essentials. The name was sufficiently witty. But it was in English.

And this is the prejudice part. I moved to Mexico for a number of reasons. One of them was not to attempt to re-create the life I left up north. (Though I will confess that I have been caught out on that one, as well.) I tend not to stop at shops or restaurants with English names -- or, worse, that display foreign national flags. The reasons are not pertinent for this essay. I just don't.

But, like all prejudices, I end up hurting myself by not opening up to some new experiences. And Bare Essentials was the exception that proved the rule.

A couple of weeks ago, I poked my head through the door. I cannot remember what propelled me across the threshold (other than my feet). Maybe it was curiosity.

Remember those funky, little hippie shops that popped up in most urban neighborhoods in the late 1960s? Bare Essentials had that -- dare I slip into cliché? -- vibe. But this was not your grandmother's head shop.

Somewhere along the line, the counter-culture earthiness of head shops has morphed into edgy establishment environmentalism. And that is not a criticism. What was once a niche community that, at its worse spawned the Manson mayhem, has now morphed into a utilitarian philosophy that spawns solar panels. You could almost hear Peter Allen humming "Everything old is new again" in the background.

Because my visit was as a journalist, not a shopper, I was caught a bit off guard when the owners, Mari Carmen and Giovanni, welcomed me and asked if I was looking for anything.

I was, of course, looking for something -- a story. I could have been more forthcoming because Mari Carmen recognized me from this blog. But I truncated my response to the shopper's mask: "Just looking."

The shop is not large.  But that is deceptive. Each etagere and counter contains a treasure trove of hand-crafted items.

A book exchange nestles in a battered suitcase that looked as if Anouska Hempel had just paid a visit.

They also offer a choice of well-crafted loose-leaf teas. I bought a packet of gunpowder green sold in a small paper bag -- as if I would have expected any different packaging. It has proven to be delicious.

And, of course, there are the usual hand-decorated personal-wear items that give every funky establishment its cachet. 

And there is much more. Jigsaw puzzles. Non-electronic toys. Soaps.

But Giovanni saved the best -- as if he had read my culinary soul -- for last. He makes six salsas from various peppers: ranging from a very mild jalapeño-serrano combination to a delightfully piquant Carolina Reaper.

I have told you about my Carolina Reaper experience in into life a little spice must fall. Unfortunately, just after I wrote that piece, the spice did fall. The glass jar slipped out of my hand while I was returning it to the refrigerator.

Rather than cry over spilled capsaicin, I trotted down the street to buy a jar of each of his salsas. I have been experimenting ever since. For cooking, I prefer the spicier salsas. I have added it to refritos, egg dishes, a bean and ham soup, and my favorite, so far, a tongue-tantalizing egg salad.

The milder salsas are perfectly-designed for eating right out of the jar. But their tastes are so subtle, I do not eat them with tortilla chips. The taste of the corn interferes with the salsa layers. I have been frying up rice paper (an incredibly easy process) as a neutral transportation method from bowl to mouth.

If you live within driving or walking distance, walk through the door and meet Mari Carmen and Giovanni. And try the tea and the salsa.

I am glad I did. The experience caused me to wear my "I am an enemy of the state" button for a couple days.