This story is going to end in the ruined parking lot of a small hispanic market, surrounded by cacti and abandoned store fronts. Harsh, mid-day sun beat down on me. My arms were full of little glass bottles and a six-pack of Pacifico in each hand. Immigration had set up shop for reasons of their own, their attention fixed on me as I approached a shiny, black sports car. But that comes at the end—It starts earlier that day along Interstate-10 when I pulled off onto Speedway Boulevard, ready to enjoy a day in Tucson.
I make the trip to Tucson regularly for reasons of my own. It’s a great place with a lot going on—the kind of city that doesn’t care if you notice, but will show off if you do. The food scene is diverse and ever changing and there’s always something new to do. That could be art, outdoor adventure, rock-collecting or bar-hopping. It’s best not to have expectations, because Tucson will find something for you.
I had heard there were new murals and since I was cruising around in borrowed Corvette, I decided to spend the afternoon looking for more—and a new lunch spot. I was satisfied on all accounts. Hand-painted signs have always been part of the Southwestern ethos, but something new happened during the pandemic. Immense, beautiful murals went up all over. Some are scenic and imaginative with rich meaning, others are hauntingly beautiful. A few, though well done and worth a look, are shameless self-advertising, looking to cash in on the movement. It made for a fun afternoon.
I never miss a chance to pick up local hot sauce, which is how I found myself in the torn up parking-lot staring down the migra. It makes me seem like a fanatic—after all, you can get Tabasco or Tapatio anywhere, and those are great, but there’s much better stuff if you know where to get it. For the record, I’m not talking about the shit that burns for no reason—what my friend, Chef Eric calls douchebro hot sauce. If I want to prove my manhood, it won’t be sucking down pureed ghost pepper, followed promptly by burnt rectum. I’m talking about sauces with pure, balanced flavor—red, green, ranchera or sweet-habañero—I’ll take them all.
Tucson boasts several time-honored hot sauce families. Some are so secure in their secret trade-knowledge that they only make new batches when they feel like it. I’d throw down for the last bottle of that stuff, if the opportunity ever presented itself. For now I just have to make the trip whenever I run dry.
With a two-hour drive back to Phoenix still ahead of me and the better part of the afternoon gone, it came time find my fix and move on. Two immigration officers in their ICE-wagon stared at me as I pulled into the mangled parking lot. I drove around to the back to park away from half a dozen other cars and trucks parked there, as Corvette owners are known to do—I only had it for the day and I was living the dream. I came back out with white bags filled with little glass bottles to find them still watching me. My entitlements make me someone they don’t usually stop without cause, so their interest confused me. As I reached the trunk and opened a cooler I brought to keep my stash from rolling around, the ICE wagon started to move. They came around to the front of the store, and all the other cars to pass behind me.
I stood up with a bottle of hot-poblano in one hand, to meet the officer’s gaze, obscured through faded Oakleys. Were they looking for another type of glass? Or something else they could use to justify a raid on my precious dealer? I don’t know, they accelerated suddenly, and made for the exit. As they did, the rear wheels peeled out, spewing bits of broken asphalt behind them and kicking up a dust cloud around me.
Maybe they were disappointed that I only had hot sauce and beer—Or did they want a closer look at the shiny details and fiery-red interior? The fact that I have to wonder is a damn shame, but it doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I’ll be back when my supply runs out.
