"The pastry war was a loss. It should be. The newly dismantled Mexican Republic lost to France in the 1840s, but for 20 years it had to suffer before entering an armed conflict. And win. As if the Light Rail screwing has penetrated, I stop looking into my tracks, how the neon sign intrudes me into the dimly illuminated vibrancy. What story do they share with it? Green neon glints from the two slim-framed bicycle stands in front. In Downtown Houston it was strange to have a bar with a 19th conflict. century to see. The past is not one thing of a person, on both sides of the border. So, of course, I have to go in. I'm going somewhere else, but who cares about me. Days pass before I enter. But I'm leaving. The small entrance has two-colored walls: white on the upper horizontal red on the bottom. It reminds me of every picturesque city in Latin America, not just the interior of Mexico. The opposite wall of this prechamber has exposed stone. But this room is filled by a billiard table with unmatched pool sticks that protrude from their stand. The input window transoms are connected to string. I fit under her single-line marquee says Mezcaleria in a blocky Futura Condensed font. The story is chaotic. The United States helped the French blockade of Mexico for their 600,000-Peso complaint about damage. Like Remontel, there is no recourse to Mexico more than one thing. I see Nahua masks behind cages hidden from cultural exchange. Unlike the limes and lemons in their cages, to use for us. These masks are locked. You could almost forget that the story is a bunch of stories at once. Thus, at the end of the Spanish conquest, Mescal was produced secretly. I'm going to the main room with the bar. On the wooden wall that flanks the bar, they project a B W role of amateur rodeo film along with scenes from the 2005 film The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada . My memory flashes back to me as I see the movie with my then-alive Abuelo in the Spanish Meadows Nursing Home in Brownsville. I snap it out when the barkeep asks what I want while it is in the middle of compiling another set of 3 cocktails. I know that Margarita's house makes sense to start. On the rocks. Salt on the rim. I'm going back to the wall of the bar to see a map of Mexico. I'm studying. The Barkeep quickly gives me my predictable order. I run to the stands with scenes with the iconography of Día de Muertos, which is a Mexico with bandols, sombreros and floral dresses on the Campesinos ' esqueletos. It is a debut of the Jarabe Tapatio etching of Jose Posada, born in Aguascalientes 14 years after the end of the pastry war. I can also see a skeletal reef on the painting of Santiago Matamoros, which invites a band of bogs in the battle of Clavijo. House-Marg is absolutely delicious. No question. A perfectly balanced blend of silver tequila, limes, agave. Even the salt has citrus on it. Before I take a drink, my grandpa would press his thumb into a small salt stack that he had poured onto a saucer. He would lick his thumb and then drink his beer, tells me a story about his taste – one that I had probably heard before. I always thought that licking was rough. For my 2nd drink I order an Alipus San Baltazar Mezcal in a cup. The backroom has seen the same metal top porcelain tables from the bar. The same string lights row over the ceiling. There is also a second pool table. And there's this half-VW beetle I've seen on Instagram. You wallpaper the back wall with lowbrow newspapers, comics, ads, lucha libre graphics. Like the combed religious masks you welcome, the lucha libre masks are the religious, mythological, economic vehicle they need to work like them. I finished my copita from Mezcal, but not before I pour a little salt on the bar counter and take something with my thumb. I'll cut it and go. Pastry War FTW."
