The charm of the chicken lady

Yesterday Alice and I went to Mercado Juarez, a huge indoor market at the Cuauhtemoc metro stop. We happened upon the chicken sellers first, and as we scanned over everyone, trying to figure out who sold the best birds, I immediately spotted the woman I wanted to buy from.

She stood at a small stall — perhaps the most humble of them all — with a hand-lettered sign tacked to an boxy, 1950s-era refrigerator. She looked about 65 or so, and her hair was graying at the temples.

What attracted me to her was her smile. It took up her whole face. It crinkled the corners of her eyes. And it was like she couldn’t not smile. She smiled as she whacked away at the chicken, smiled as she cut into it with scissors, smiled as she pounded it flat on a small tree stump. A crowd of women customers had gathered in front of her counter, and she talked to them as she worked. Smiling, of course.

I walked up behind the crowd and waited, inching my way closer as other customers left. Finally I was at the front, sharing the counter space with just one other customer, a middle-aged woman with her two sons. The woman ordered seven chicken thighs.

“Quito el piel?” the smiling chicken worker asked. Remove the skin?

The woman nodded.

The older lady pulled and tugged on the skin, ripping it off in a matter of seconds.

“Quito los huesos?” Remove the bones?

The woman nodded. “Sí por favor.”

The chicken lady took her scissors — massive things, bigger than her hands, nearly the size of her head — and expertly made an incision, and then pulled out the bone with her fingers. The bones collected on the side of the counter in a tidy pile. She then whipped open the scissor blades and, using the edge of one blade, delicately cut into them again, transforming the thighs into flat, lumpy little sheets.

She placed them between sheets of cellophane, and then placed that on a tree stump, pounding them flat with a mallet.

She talked to the middle-aged woman while she worked. She stole little glances at me, too, just to let me know I could listen.

“Do you know what I had the other day? Pork ribs. But they were pork ribs in the best sauce, it was a red wine sauce. Oh, and the potato puree that this woman made! There must have been six garlic cloves in it. And she put cream, too. Ooooh… it was delicious.” She smiled.

How could I not love this woman? She was basically me at 65, but working in a chicken stand.

By the time she was done with the middle-aged woman’s order, 15 minutes had passed, and one of the woman’s sons had started to get impatient. He reached for a chicken breast that sat on the counter, and tugged on its wrinkled skin. His mother swatted his hand. The boy made a sour face.

They left and finally, it was my turn.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?” she asked.

“Do you have any more chicken thighs?”

“Of course!” She walked to her ancient refrigerator and pulled out a plastic bag. The thighs plopped on the counter. One, two, three, four.

I told her I wanted the same flat-style thighs the woman before me had ordered. So she got to work, removing skin, deboning, slicing. She gave me recipe advice: saute them in a nonstick pan — less fat that way — with some garlic salt and lime juice. And then I could serve it with a salad. I nodded and smiled.

“And if you ever want to serve tostadas,” she added, “there’s a certain brand that are baked, and they have zero fat. They’re wonderful!” She smiled again.

Before I left, I asked her how long she’d been working there.

“Uuuuf,” she said, thinking. “The market’s been here for more than 50 years. My mom started bringing me here with her when I was five.”

She gave me my flattened chicken thighs in a plastic bag, and sent me off with a “Come back soon!”

Usually I buy my chicken on Sundays at the tianguis, at a stand run by a bunch of dour-faced men. No more. This chicken lady has stolen my heart.