El Hindú de la Condesa

While Lesley’s studying at an ashram in India, her husband Crayton is guest-posting. Please be kind to him.

I haven’t talked a lot about our trip to India because I’m sure Lesley’s going to have lots of observations she wants to share when she returns midweek next week, and I don’t want to steal her thunder. (And she will bring you THUNDER, people. She was telling me something about “savory breakfasts” the other night on Skype. She’s very excited about this concept. Just a little preview. Prepare yourselves accordingly.) But I saw something the other night that reminded me how small the world is.

I was drinking some Victorias with my buddy Roberto at El Centenario, a really enjoyable cantina in the Condesa neighborhood. Around midnight, after we had finally found a table amidst the throng of revelers and hovering musicians, I saw the man I will call the ropa-wallah.

I’d seen him once before, I think on a patio at some other nightspot in the Condesa. Around these parts you’d call him un hindú, which is the catch-all term for anyone of South Asian descent, regardless of religion or border, in the same way that un chino is any variety of East Asian. The ropa-wallah carries an enormous bag of Indian-style dress shirts (the short kurta style) with him, colorful clothes made with light fabric. I haven’t inspected them up close to vouch for their quality, but they seem pretty nice.

And so the thing is that Mexicans LOVE this guy. The ropa-wallah approaches potential customers in bars and restaurants with a disarming, eager smile, and he’s so excited about selling his shirts that it’s hard to resist. “Real Indian shirts!” he says. “They will look so nice on you! This color is the best!” I watched him unload shirt after shirt at a table near the Centenario’s entrance, and every once in a while, after the ropa-wallah had moved on, I’d see a tipsy Mexican amble back toward the bathroom, clad in a regal-looking shirt of turquoise, lime-green or orange.

I did a quick search online to see if anybody knows anything about the ropa-wallah. Only saw a brief discussion of him here, in the comments. (“El que vende ropa Hindú es la onda.”) Next time I see him – for surely this won’t be the last – I’ll try to get more info.

The sight of the ropa-wallah reminded me of our visit to Amigos Bar, a Tex-Mex-themed spot in Jaipur, India, just a few weeks ago. When we learned of the existence of this place, Lesley and I were immediately convinced that we had to go. (Our friend Vikas was not so enthused, but he good-naturedly came along.)

Amigos is at the top of the Hotel Om Tower, an odd-looking, cylindrical building that offers some pretty cool views of Jaipur, the capital of the rugged northwest desert state of Rajasthan. The decor is some sort of Indian interpretation of cowboy chic, with lariats and cacti and rocks. I got a picture next to a cowboy-mannequin who lay in repose, apparently after a long day of cattle-driving or whatever. (The photo’s on the camera Lesley has with her, so I will stick it in here when she gets back.) We ordered beers and a chicken quesadilla, which was covered in a creamy sauce, more like an enchilada. It was decent but could have used some spice, something picante.

Still, we were thrilled with the very concept of eating a quesadilla/enchilada in Jaipur, seeing how the food we know so well could be interpreted and altered in a country so many miles away. I felt that same thrill at the Centenario, watching the ropa-wallah outfit Mexicans in shirts like those they wear on the other side of the world.