A pambazo is a thing
where your friend of a friend, after drinks, after tiny street tacos (al pastor,
cabeza, chorizo, chorizo, chorizo, so small the taco man has to pinch them to
gather up the meat), after more drinks, after ranchero/banda karaoke, drives
you up, up into the outskirts of the DF, up past stand after brightly-lit taco
and torta and quesadilla stand – so bright, each one a cheery, county-fair
white, small clapboard food beacons guiding you in the dark – until you reach
one nestled in the corner of a quiet intersection, so high you can see the
silent sweep of the city below you, so high there is a possibility the car
crashed en route and you’ve in fact died and gone to Mexican food heaven. A pambazo
is a thing where your friend asks the owners (an older woman, a younger woman,
a middle-aged man) if they have pambazos, and they shake their heads and sigh,
perdón, they’re out of bread, and you and your friend and your boyfriend all
shake your heads too because boy that is a fucking lástima if I ever heard it,
but then the young woman goes and rummages around and finds a surprise sleeve
of bread and it’s all back on. They ask you if you want tradicional, your
Mexican friend nods. So you also nod.
A pambazo is, technically:
1-1 large-ish
hamburger-type bun
2-Chili oil
3-Generous helping of
chorizo and potato, bien picados, fried together
4-Queso fresco
5-Liquefied meat fat
6-Lettuce?? (doubtful)
7-Possibly more meat
