November 27, 2019
Just Saying…
By Q.C. Jones
A Christmas Quest
Christmas comes steeped in, dripping in and richly coated with tradition. I have such fond memories of my mother’s Christmas dinner of Beef Wellington, my paternal grandmother’s famous cherry pie, and the oyster dressing my other grandma turned out each year. Just mentioning the delightful gravy that seemed to flow by the gallons over the top of mashed potatoes at these family gatherings kicks my saliva glands into full function.
Your pal QC Jones could go on and on with tales of cookies, eggnog, and a thousand other culinary delights. Instead, allow me to document a tale of a Quad-City Christmas some two decades ago. While I am sure this won’t replace the Charlie Dickens fable of a Christmas goose as big as little Timmy, retelling the story does bring a flush to my cheeks and a twinkle to my formerly cataract encrusted eyes.
Our traditional Christmas dinner is tamales. Strangely, I can’t remember how or why the tradition started. The rebel son of a traditional family searching for a new meaning, an easy surrender to the reality there was no way to duplicate the grandiose style of my ancestors or my ongoing love affair with Mexican food are good theories. Regardless of the cause, my family has tamales for Christmas.
According to a friend who has both the heritage and knowledge to speak with authority on the subject, the corn masa-and-meat bundles, individually wrapped in corn husks and then steamed, are part of the traditional Mexican celebration of Las Posadas, which commemorates Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter before the birth of Jesus. I guess it’s the corn husk thing, but I forgot to ask. On to the quest.
So here it is December 1998. And here we are, strangers, or at least newcomers, to our great QCA and it’s Christmas Eve. The two lovely ladies of my life, Gail and Rosie are in the car at 10-something and the subject of Christmas dinner comes up. Almost in unison, they say, what about the tamales?
Being a natural problem solver and quicker on my feet than a tap dancer, I say, no problem our newfound home has plenty of Mexican restaurants, a few Tiendas, a Super Mercado, and a few miscellaneous markets. We’ll go grab
ourselves a bowl of menudo, a lingua taco and swoop up
some tamales for the big dinner. We were off on the greatest
post-modern Christmas quest since Chevy Chase’s great
light show.
Things have changed over the past 20 years. Back in the day, the best (and to my recollection only) Mexican stores were on the Illinois side. Behind the wheel and singing the words to Gene Autry’s big 1939 hit “South of the Border, Down Mexico way” with Illinois substituted for Mexico, I pointed the Family Truckster over the I-74 bridge. For a split second, I thought this tamale thing was going to be a piece of cake, or as they say in Spanish, “trozo de pastel.”
We made our way to our favorite Mexican restaurant, which also houses a grocery store, La Primavera in downtown Moline. Thinking the tamale gathering was a no brainer, I sat the family down for a fabulous lunch and continued our plans for Christmas Day. Feeling like I was not only the head of la familia but the king of the world, I waltzed up front to pay my bill and gather the Christmas tamales. No dice, or should I say, no tamales. I went from hero to zero in about 50 milliseconds as our hostess and store owner, Yolanda, told me, with a sad smile, “sorry, no tamales.”
It was now early afternoon, so we made a cruise over to another Mexican store in East Moline with plans to snatch up our Christmas treat. Walking in the store, we discovered everyone in a quite festive mood. Feliz Navidads were in the air; fluttering and flying around like candy out of a busted pinata. The nice man at the front counter didn’t speak much English, but after a brief exchange we understood
“no tamales today.”
Repeating the process at a half dozen other establishments, we discovered tamales were as scarce as hen’s teeth that fine Christmas Eve. Feeling semi-depressed, I forced a chipper smile and said, “don’t worry we have a few more places to stop.” Surely, hopefully, maybe there will be
tamales somewhere.
On our last stop, I was the only one with the mental fortitude to even get out of the car. The store was a Mexican meat market, mercado de carne, and the man behind the counter said, “no tamales.”
At that point, I was humbled, sad and frustrated. I asked him if he planned to have tamales for Christmas and with a big smile he replied, “Si, Señor.” I asked point-blank, “ok where do you get your tamales?” He said, “the man upstairs.”
Manna from heaven? My first thought was the biblical story from Exodus, where God provided for the Israelites during their wanders through the wilderness. Rather shyly, I asked about the “man upstairs” and he said yeah, Mr. Garcia lives in the apartment upstairs above the store.
On each step up what may have been the darkest stairs in all of Moline, the wonderful smell of fresh tamales got more powerful. By the time I hit the landing, I knew I was in the right place. A tiny frail man, who must have been 70, answered the door. When asked if he had tamales, his blessed answer made my Christmas merry.
We had a delightful Christmas dinner and continued our relationship with Mr. Garcia for many years. Somehow, we lost track of this kind and gentle man, but if you know him please wish him a Merry Christmas. Just saying….
