Bitter Drink Read Online Free Page B

of having a piece of food caught between your teeth. And then it struck me: I’d never said I was coming to Puerto Vallarta. How’d he known where I was headed?
    I emptied both glasses, one after another, without breathing.

TEQUILA
    2 CUPS ORANGE JUICE
    3 TABLESPOONS TABASCO SAUCE OR POWDERED CHILI PEPPERS
    ¼ CUP LIME JUICE
    2 CUPS TOMATO JUICE
    2 TABLESPOONS MINCED ONION
    SALT AND PEPPER
    2 TABLESPOONS WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE
    1 LIME SLICE
    M ix together all ingredients except for the tequila, seasoning with salt and pepper to taste. Serve in a tall shot glass. Serve the tequila in another shot glass, accompanied by a slice of lime. The music of mariachi Pedro Infante will help it go down smoothly.
    Born in the city of Tequila, Jalisco, in the early twentieth century, sangrita, a traditional chaser for shots of tequila, was popular among rich hacienda owners who cultivated the maguey plant from which mezcal is distilled. Invented by Romero’s widow, sangrita takes away the strong alcoholic flavor of tequila so you can better appreciate the taste of the spirit.
    In time, sangrita became an obligatory accompaniment for tequila, its feminine side, if you will. A sip of tequila is taken, followed by one of sangrita. Few drinks mix together so sublimely inside the mouth.
    __________________
    There was no highway leading to the movie set; the commute was either made by donkey or by sea. All the supplies, equipment, and material had to be transported in
panga
motorboats, which set out from a small dock in Puerto Vallarta on Playa de los Muertos: Dead Man’s Beach. Bad name for a beach. Bad name for anything. Especially if you’re the dead man.
    I caught a
panga
to Mismaloya along with some people who were working on the film. Our little boat skirted the scenic coastline, passing by places no modern man had ever set foot on. Not that I think many modern men are too interested in setting their feet someplace so filled with mosquitoes and vermin.
    We reached a spot where two big islands, large and steep, emerged from the sea.
    “They call it Los Arcos. That’s where all the birds nest,” the
panga
captain told me. And indeed, these islands seemed to be a popular spot; an infinite number of birds flew around them: seagulls, pelicans, frigate birds, and other fish thieves. As the
panga
approached the shore, the birds rose up in cacophonous flight.
    A few minutes later, the
panga
reached a small beach, pleated like a sheet. Next to it, on a crag, was a colonial-style edifice right out of a Speedy Gonzales cartoon. We’d arrived at
The Night of the Iguana.
    We disembarked on a dock built at the foot of the rocks, and then climbed a steep staircase that had been built between the outcroppings in an attempt to make this lost corner of the world more habitable. A great flurry of activity greeted me once I reached the plateau. Dozens of people moved back and forth, like a colony of ants, carrying, dragging, or delivering things. Just a typical day on a film set.
    I bumped into a man wearing a sky-blue guayabera and creased linen pants that were so smooth they walked on their own. He sported several days of stubble and several years of receding hairline. I guessed he was one of the production assistants, as he clutched a thick stack of papers to his chest like it was his virginity.
    “I’m looking for Mr. Stark,” I ventured.
    “If you hurry, you can catch a plane to Los Angeles, darling. He won’t be here until next week,” he answered me in Spanish tinged with a touch of Pasadena playboy.
    “Mr. Huston?” I tried again.
    “Sure you want to see him? He hasn’t filmed anything since yesterday. He just might swallow you whole.”
    “If I can’t have the big boys, I’ll settle for you. I’m the security guy. Mr. Stark told me to show up here.”
    Sky-Blue Shirt smiled. He turned around, signaling back to me. He didn’t shake my hand or introduce himself. He was no gentleman. But then, no one in Movieland was.
    “Follow