MEAT STREETS: A Rolling Steakation & Beyond
- By Michael Emeleus
- Published May 23, 2024
- Updated May 23, 2024
- 4 Comments
- Read Time: 10min
TABLE OF CONTENTS
We Had No Choice
Some things out there are pretty hard to ignore. I’m talking about the good things. Double rainbows, online videos of canine antics, Jackie Chan’s every single move in Drunken Master 2. The smell of frying bacon when you least expect it and Sam Elliott’s hair also tend to do the job. Oh, and denim-clad Mexican cowboys drinking beer and char-grilling steaks while rolling down the middle of a busy boulevard on a random Saturday night. Hard to ignore.
Véro and I were walking along one of Mazatlán’s main thoroughfares one evening, just minding our own business, when something caught my eye. Ok, more like wrenched it right out of its socket, forcing multiple double takes and a full stop. Something deliciously, searingly, smokily out of place. On the other side of the busy 4-lane artery and heading in the opposite direction, a man in full cowboy regalia stood in the rear of a moving pickup-towed trailer, holding a pair of BBQ tongs and tending to some kind of improvised grill station as smoke billowed all about him and his hat. “Are you seeing this?” I asked my wife, turning to her and finding her equally stunned. “Is that guy grilling in the middle of the fucking road?”
As we were trying to compute what we were witnessing and determine how many parts mirage it was, the pickup truck slowly came to a halt. A few other cowboys and cowgirls descended from the trailer and went into a convenience store while our main man stayed at his post and kept on cooking. This was our chance – there was no way we were not going to investigate.
Crossing this particular roadway can get a little Evel Knievely at times, but we knew that whatever lay on the other side would somehow be worth the close brushes with vehicular misadventure. Stealthily making our way over like Costanza with his Frogger machine but decidedly faster, we jogged up to the back of the trailer and engaged.
“Who are you and what is this?” we demanded in Spanish, only far more politely and in entirely different words. The grilling cowboy looked down at us, smiled from ear to ear, grabbed a couple of pieces of sizzling sirloin with his tongs and offered us both a bite.
As we confirmed with each juicy chew that this was indeed no mirage, the convenience store faction of the group climbed back onto the trailer with fresh cases of beer. A dozen cowpeople in all, including the guy driving the pickup truck, everyone rocking denim, rootin’-tootin’ boots and hats, and the same shirt emblazoned with a name that we would very soon come to love.
“We are the Cabalgantes de Nuevo León,” the grill meister proudly declared. “Would you care for a ride?”
As fate would have it, Véro and I didn’t have any plans, but even if we did, there was no way we were refusing this. We hopped on board, were immediately handed a couple of freakishly frosty beers – seriously, Mexico is home to the very coldest ones on Earth – and the rolling BBQ was back in gear.
Alejandro is our gracious host’s name, and he explains to us that their group is part of a horseback riding organization out of Monterrey, Nuevo León (cabalgantes means “horse riders”), and they’re in town for an equestrian event that just wrapped up a few hours before. We’ve caught them in the very thick of some unsaddled revelry and well-earned kicking back, and we are most welcome to join in for as long as we like. That would be a resounding absolutamente. Alejandro offers us another delicious morsel, cryogenic beers crack open all about, someone pumps up the jam, and we’re off.
Beyond Funderdome
Mazatlán is no stranger to rolling parties; in fact, they’re a municipal specialty for which the city is famous across the land. On any given night (or afternoon) of the week, at any time of the year, the roads here are a-rockin’ with an array of fiesta-friendly vehicles souped up with kaleidoscopic lights and ear-bruising sound systems, not to mention an implicit drink-‘em-if-you-got-‘em passenger policy that is happily respected by all. From the city’s legendary pulmonías (think vintage white Volkswagens that look like converted golf carts) and aurigas (red party pickups that comfortably fit a drunken family of eight) to full-on booze buses and Batman-esque ATVs, your choices here for mirthful-to-shitfaced transportation are ample. The BBQ though, that was something special.
It was apparently a rental, along with the trailer, and was attached to the very edge of the rear, with no barrier or anything to keep you from grilling right off the back in case of an unhappy bump. A couple of times, I forgot how precariously I was positioned while watching Alejandro at work, and he softly reminded me, very possibly saving my life. As we rolled, sparks were jumping off the coals right into the windshields of motorists in our wake, all of whom seemed downright delighted with what was happening while their passengers enthusiastically aimed their phones at us. The whole scene was a little like Mad Max, only cheery and with free food. And we clearly weren’t the only ones who had never seen anything quite like it before.
Watching the sparks fly, I couldn’t help pointing out that in Montreal, all of this is so illegal on so many levels that it’s not even a thought. Go ahead, just try “firing up the barbie” while cruising down Sherbrooke Street standing up, let alone grilling your heart out with ten other beer-toting people looking on, not a seatbelt in sight. Good luck to you with that. At the mention of Montreal, Alejandro’s lovely wife Claudia chimed in: “Yeah, too many rules”.
It turns out they had recently been there on holiday (had an amazing time, despite the rules), and they came back home with this one French phrase of unmistakable Montreal origin packed in their linguistic luggage:
“Prochaine station, Place-des-Arts.”
It’s already exceedingly rare to encounter Mexicans who have been to Montreal in this neck of the woods. To hear an imitation of the metro’s PA system on the Green Line, now that was just priceless.
Fallen Steaks & Foreign Shores
A bonafide hootenanny on wheels, we’re officially truckin’. Alejandro is a meat-flipping beacon of mirth, keeping the good times rolling both inside and outside the vehicle as we go. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him lean off the side of the trailer in an attempt to feed all his new friends in the other cars at 30 km/hr through their windows, that’s just the kind of guy he is. Thankfully, he did not try. Along the way, his cowboy hat flies off on more than one occasion and we have to stop, taking turns going to play in the traffic to fetch it or tending to the beef. One of these little hat halts ends up leading to a quick intermission of spontaneous dancing in the middle of the street. Again, for the record, other motorists loving it.
At one point, Véro and I are asked if we want to be dropped off somewhere since we’re getting pretty far from where we got on, but if we want to continue, we’re more than welcome. Are you kidding? ¿Estás bromeando? We’re taking the gimme-danger steakmobile with the marvellous horse riders of Monterrey as far as it’ll take us.
The cabalgantes tell us that they’re heading back to where they’re staying for the weekend, something about a mansion that was once featured on Acapulco Shore, Mexico’s answer to Jersey Shore. We’re cordially invited, but again, if we want to get off, no problem.
Did you say “Acapulco Shore”? Yeah, no, we ain’t budging.
The traffic begins to thin out as we leave the main hotel district, as do the street lights. Before long, we’re on what seems to be a country road, a faint glimmer of ocean waves crashing in the dark distance to one side. All of a sudden, the aluminum pan holding the steak flies off the grill station, flipping into the night. The street meat is now quite literally in the street. We stop again to pick up the pan, climb back on and keep going, and just as we’re coming to grips with this shitty little turn of events, we finally arrive at “The Shore”.
Uneasy Watchin’
Now, for those of you who have not had the misfortune, I’ve done some very brief research on the show in question to save you the pain of an actual viewing. Acapulco Shore, altogether true to the spirit of the cultural dumpster fire that inspired it, proudly keeps the cologne-and-drama-fuelled torch of its New Jersey predecessor burning bright for all to see. Based on what I managed to watch, it’s a morass of bling, cleavage and dysmorphic grooming, where scantily-clad, inebriated twenty-somethings alternate between relentless hooking up and getting in each other’s faces for reasons unwaveringly asinine. Things regularly degenerate into up-in-the-club-style, hair-pulling mayhem, and I get the feeling that no one ends up learning any lessons. Now in Spanish! Muchas gracias, Snooki.
As seen in season 7, the house is a sprawling, walled, hacienda-style building with a hint of cartel, situated right on the beach in the middle of nowhere. The overall decor is done in the seizure-inducing style of Pee-wee’s Playhouse, with plastic flora and fauna accents, randomly strewn disco balls, a basketball hoop in the kitchen, and a paint job seemingly courtesy of the Starburst candy company. There’s a fountain out front for relieving yourself when you can’t find the bathrooms, a jacuzzi out back for throwing drinks in the faces of your bikini-clad “friends”, and the pool is perfect for an all-out brawl under the glittering stars. Sleeps twelve comfortably.
Nochépica
No, for the record, our evening was nothing like anything that ever was, is or will be featured on Acapulco Shore, or any other “Shores” for that matter. First of all, the house had obviously been jacked up for the show since there was no sign of any on-air garishness, from the ludicrous paint job to the inflatable cacti, and what we walked into was very much easy on the eyes, and the brain. Hashtag: tasteful.
We were warmly greeted by some new cabalgantes as soon as we walked in the door, and then, no more than fifteen minutes later, a full-on feast was underway. As if the street steak wasn’t enough, we were treated to a sumptuous spread that appeared out of nowhere and even included a couple of high fives to classic Mazatlán cookery. The shrimp aguachile – ceviche’s spicier, à-la-minute cousin featuring whole raw shrimp in lime and hot pepper-infused “chile water” – was freshlicious as F&%K, and don’t get us started on the gorgeously fried, golden-gooey smoked marlin quesadillas.
Drinks flowed, as did the conversations, the music kicked our culos, and absolutely no one had a fistfight in the pool. As the stars twinkled away over the ocean and our heads, we danced and screamed along to the likes of No Se Va and Malumababy, somehow without ever waking up the hulking cowboy who had passed out on a patio couch almost immediately upon arrival. These were proper good times, and the cabalgantes’ casa was most definitely our casa. To make matters merrier, it turns out that one of the riders was celebrating her birthday, but while her custom-ordered cake was being carried out of the kitchen, it slipped to the floor and exploded all over the terracotta tiles. After a gasping pause, our collective reaction, including hers, was to point at it and laugh. Once the laughter subsided, only then did we bother to clean it up.
I don’t use the term lightly: the night was epic. La noche fue épica. The hospitality we were shown was borderline tear-jerking, and every one of the cabalgantes treated us like fellow riders, albeit riders without an inkling of the required skill set. (We no lasso.) In fact, after he beyond-generously drove us all the way back home in his pickup truck later on, Alejandro took off his road-rolling Wrangler hat as we bid each other adiós and put it square on my head. Refusal of this sudden and most humbling gift was evidently impossible, and I am now looking at it as I write this. In the unlikely event that we should ever forget, a few decorative fleck-n-smears of steak grease and asphalt remain on the fine wool as little reminders of the amazing time we had that evening with our new friends. And no, I have no intention of cleaning the thing.
Gracias Cabalgantes, Gracias México
At the end of the night, as we made our way out the front door through a tornado of hugs, Claudia said something to us that was as sad as it was funny: “You see, we’re not murderers.” And just a few minutes earlier, another rider had sincerely thanked us for trusting them enough to tag along, let alone agree to come all the way out there, beyond the city limits. You mean there was no master plan to kidnap two unsuspecting gringos by posing as a mixed group of equestrian enthusiasts (some married to each other), lure them onto a rented trailer in the middle of the main strip with some very conspicuous barbecuing, drive them out to the previous set of an MTV reality show, ply them with more delicious homemade cooking, and then…?
Now that’s an M.O.
Let’s just say that thanks to the always-glowing and unfailingly balanced coverage that Mexico regularly enjoys across the news media spectrum and then some, Claudia’s comment needed no explanation. We’ve all heard it before: “Mexico is dangerous”. That’s it, all you gotta know. This is the woeful extent to which far too many people are willing to think about this place we love so much. A country so vast and variegated, of such ineffable splendour, beauty and richness, and whose overwhelming majority of citizens embody the exact opposite of that sweeping statement. We’d like to think that goes without saying.
No doubt about it, there’s some bad shit going on in this country, you have to choose your destinations and your movements wisely, and the wrong place and wrong time can happen no matter what you do. We’re not foolish enough to suggest otherwise. That said, we live in a state famous for all things narco, our place about a five-minute drive from where El Chapo was captured (again) in 2014 and a few towns over from where his son was infamously arrested last year. And we feel safer here than we ever would have believed had we put all our faith in the prevailing message. Seriously, the negative experiences we’ve had with other people over almost 2 years in Mexico can be counted on one hand, and they’re not even worth mentioning. This has been our personal experience of course, and we’re well aware that you never really know, but it needs to be said: “Mexico is dangerous” is a lamentable oversimplification.
Our new home has received us time and time again in the very same spirit as did the great Cabalgantes de Nuevo León that evening. The riders even invited us over for a part two the next day, which was going to involve a whole roasted piglet and some live banda music, but we very unfortunately couldn’t make it. As sad as that is, our night was already beyond anything we could have possibly asked for, most definitely one of the best ever. That’s right, yet another notch in the best-ever ledger, once again courtesy of Mexico. And once again, we’re somehow even more in love with this place and its people than we already were. That, dear friends, is a whole lotta love. Un montón de amor.
And all we wanted was to see if the steak man in the street was real.
Thank you so much for reading, and if you ever happen to find yourself in Monterrey, by all means hit up the Cabalgantes de Nuevo Léon for some no-doubt unequalled equestrian escapading, hopefully some horseback hijinks, and definitely a warm welcome you won’t soon forget. Giddyup.