DISTRITO FEDERAL
VEGETARIAN IN THE CITY :

TEXT

Elisabeth Lastschenko

“But that’s meat!”

The waiter looks at me perplexed: “No, not meat. Chicken.”

Ah, that’s right, I am living in a country where chicken is not considered meat and where the mere notion of vegetarianism is absurd to most people on the best of days. So it’s back to the menu, slowly and meticulously discarding all the options that do or may contain any meat, until finally I make a choice and after pertinently checking with the baffled waiter that it is indeed vegetarian – real vegetarian, not chicken vegetarian – I order.

This bewilderment is something that I’m having a hard time adapting to here in Mexico City. It’s not because of infrequency – on the contrary, my dietary tastes have raised more than one eyebrow over the years – it’s more the confused questions that I’m asked and the twisted logic that is deducted from my answers that throw me off track.

I made my decision to stop eating meat at the age of twelve. I had never liked it and the vegetarian-meal option at my boarding school cafeteria proved to be a revelation. The following school holidays, I announced my decision to my parents: I would stop eating meat. Understandably, they were amused at first, thinking it was a passing phase, but seeing my continuing resolve, amusement turned to worry and I was shipped off to a nutritionist. The nutritionist was neither amused nor worried; she explained the straight facts of my decision, discussed potential problems of not getting enough protein through meat-free substitutes, and then sent my mother and I off. Armed with my new nutritional title – Vegetarian – I continued my no-meat diet without further family discussion.

The passing years have not changed my attitude to meat eating. The obstacles that accompany any change of lifestyle were easily and quickly overcome. In the case of being vegetarian, these mostly entail a substantially slimmed-downed menu in most restaurants, a higher risk of food boredom unless you choose to become a whiz cook, and the embarrassing moments at a dinner party, when having forgotten to inform your host of your dietary requirements, you are forced to sheepishly say “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t eat that.” None of these, let’s be honest, are particularly difficult.

But then comes the move to a Latin American country.

Whereas in Europe and the United States vegetarianism is a common and fast-spreading trend, in Latin America it is infrequent and quite often misunderstood. I remember going to Argentina a few years ago, where, to the horror of my Argentinean friends I not only didn’t eat beef – practically criminal there – but also did not even try any meat at all throughout my three months there, despite much goading and numerous promises of a life-changing culinary experience. Although not as extreme as Argentineans in their passion for animal flesh, Mexicans also seem to see my lack of meat eating as either a childish whim or as simply absurd.

There are the practical hurdles first, those that I had come to forget. Obviously, there is the chicken-is-not-meat issue, encountered on a near daily basis – if it is not actual chicken, it is chicken stock, which seems to be the core of many a dish here. For a reason that I still have not managed to suss out, many people, when asked whether chicken stock is used, seem to balk at the question. Why is that? Do they find it a strange question? Or is there something bad in chicken stock? Then there is the distinct lack of meat-substitutes – despite Mexico being a fresh fruit and vegetable paradise if anyone knows where to get a good veggie-burger or a Quorn mince, please let me know. Street food – one of the joys of Mexico – is pitifully reduced to quesadillas and the occasional meat-free taco, but even these may not be possible if the street vendor is frying them in meat-filled oil rather than on a hot plate. If, like me, you are not only vegetarian but also a fussy and squeamish eater, you will forsake many of the idiosyncratic Mexican dishes.

Other vegetarian delights since moving to Mexico have included mad dashes through the meat section of markets, keeping my eyes on the ground and holding my breath; a long and tedious argument with a friend on the status of crickets as meat; the horrible discovery that the Ensalada Vegetariana contains ham, and the ubiquitous chicken, ever-haunting, ready to pounce when you least expect it.

But rather than my behaviour, it is the reasons that I state for not eating meat when faced with the inevitable “but why?” that most often come across as childish and difficult. “I don’t like it,” sounds capricious; “I think it’s healthier not to” often provokes a defensive stare and if I even mention the various mad-cow, avian-flu and crazy-sheep fiascos I am either met with an irritated, condescending gaze at my exaggeration or with a puzzled look as these are not typical Mexican problems. But at least my reasons suffice the majority of the time. The times when they do not are the real snags. My reply has, more than once, been retaliated with a flow of arguments on the physical dangers of my choice. At times it has been totally disregarded with the presentation of a meat-heavy meal, a shake of the head and a hiss, probably in the thought that this is just some güera whim. But still these are short-lived annoyances.

Only once have I been faced with a reaction so unexpected that I was left dumbfounded and uneasy. To my well-oiled reply came the sudden retort, questioning and accusing: “But if you can afford it, why do you choose not to eat it?” There it was: the only time I have ever felt guilty for being a vegetarian. All of my arguments and reasons fled the reproachful comment. I mumbled something, anything, and left. In this person’s eyes, my choice had been transformed from capricious and difficult to selfish arrogance. In a country where close to half the population lives in poverty and approximately 20% live in extreme poverty, choosing not to eat meat was reprehensible.

Fret not; my uneasiness did not last long. And reading a recent column on how cutting down our excessive meat consumption would cut down animals’ consumption of expensive grain which would in turn help fight world poverty and hunger, although seemingly inconsistent, has helped me feel better. But the episode still remains strongly imprinted in my cluster of Mexican souvenirs. And so now, armed with a strong resolve not to eat something that I don’t like and fortified with a not-so strong belief that by not eating it I am somehow contributing to the fight against world hunger, I continue as a vegetarian in Mexico City.