Sublime

Several years ago, I met Julio Payes, a permanent resident from Guatemala

Pocho is ordinarily a derogatory term in Mexico (to define it succinctly, a pocho is a Mexican slob who has pretensions of being a gringo sonofabitch), but I use it in a very special sense. To me that word has come to mean “uprooted Mexican,” and that’s what I have been all my life.

Cielito Lindo, a tiny stand in downtown Los Angeles named after a classic ranchera song meaning “Beautiful Little Heaven.” From here come taquitos filled with shredded beef, grabbed fresh from that roiling pan, then anointed in a creamy salsa, more pureed avocado than chile. The cooks hand them to waiting customers in a container better suited for

George and Lorraine Montoya lived on a dead-end dirt lane within easy walking distance of the historic Santa Fe Plaza. On the fringe of a prestigious neighborhood, the lane consisted mostly of two rows of modest homes, all built just before or after World War II. The few houses that had changed hands from Hispanic to Anglo ownership were easy to sp

Later the two of them had strolled through the azalea-shaded cloister of the parish patio. They sat beneath an arbor where grapes were ripening.

"They're bitter, Father," the priest anticipated Father Renteria's question. "We live in a land in which everything grows, thanks to God's providence; but everything that grows is bitter. Tha