I became addicted to public markets during my first stint in Rome from 2001-03. Mercato Trionfale was a sprawling open-air food bazaar not far from the Vatican. I got to know the Cheese Boys. I fell in lust with the Olive Goddess. I chatted up the Pasta Princess. It’s a great way to shop. You go to one stand for your cheese, another for your sausage, another for your bread. Then you stop at a tiny alimentari and get a bottle of decent Chianti for 2.50 euros.
About the only thing Mayan in Cancun is the occasional hotel maid. She must look at the Sigma Chi rush chairman stumbling around in a sombrero and wonder what has happened to her proud, 3,500-year-old culture.
Where she finds it is the same place I did: the dining table.
The tall, striking blond filleted the fish at my table with the precision of a surgeon and the care of a mother.