The Raisin Ladies

Having grown up on shriveled, dried-out raisins—oh, and "California Raisins" commercials...y'all remember those?—I never thought of the raisin as a delicacy but rather as an afterthought: a sugary addition to oatmeal or cereal or bread pudding, something that at the very least needed 10 minutes in hot water to gain some plumpness and something resembling edibility.

Then on a trip to my local farmer's market (around the corner from my apartment in Mexico City), I stumbled upon a jar of the plumpest, juiciest, purple pitch-colored raisins I ever saw in my life. I tried a sample—the ladies with their little stores selling everything from canned beans to fresh cream always want to offer a little taste; like a dealer they know you'll pay for the second try—and bought 200 grams on the spot. I took my baggie home and promptly threw a handful of raisins into my yogurt. If it was possible to dry heaven in the sun, the makers of those raisins achieved it.

I thought my obsession was personal; surely no one else could be so enamored of a few dried-up grapes. But I gave my mother a sample when she visited, and the raisins—of all the amazing food we tried during her stay—were the biggest hit, the winner of the week. She visited the raisin ladies at their tiny store in the market and bought another few hundred grams, feeling guilty that she was eating through my stash.

And when she left, she made a special trip to buy two kilo-bags of raisins to traffic home to Florida. The raisin ladies were ecstatic—I doubt they'd ever sold so many raisins at once in their life. Now every time I swing by, it's "How's your mother? Tell her we say hello!"

Street Food by Night