already a reality, as reported by the Spanish language news site SanDiegoRed. The restaurant is located near Desayunador Salesiano. It’s a mechanic shop with a tiny kitchen that used to serve comida corrida, Mexican- style cheap food. But its proximity to the Haitian refugees prompted them to change their menu. I arrive around 3:00


p.m. hoping for some Haitian fried chicken. The contrast between one block that feels like Tijuana and the next that feels like Haiti is striking. Twenty Haitians (18 males and 2 females) cluster outside the kitchen next to a junkyard of cars. They want some chicken. I wait behind them in hopes of getting some chicken, too. A Mexican woman, a


teenage girl, and two large Haitian women share the cramped kitchen. Piles of


garlic, onions, and peppers sit on the kitchen counter next to a blender. Gigan- tic pots of chicken boil on top of one stove, while the skillets of oil smoke on the other. Twenty minutes pass and no one is getting food. More hungry Haitians arrive each minute. “What do you want to


take pictures of?” José Luis, the owner of the mechanic shop and kitchen asks me. Despairing of ever getting chicken, I’ve picked my way through the junkyard of cars into the back of the kitchen where José Luis sits on a plastic chair. Two Haitian men move buckets of water from side to side and seem to be doing gen- eral help in the workshop and kitchen. “Se alborotan todos


si tomas fotos.” José Luis told me it was best not to take pictures, that people would get upset. “If you


take a picture, sometimes they get mad and it is hard to control them. I’d rather you not.” “Who is the reporter?”


Señora Rosalía peers out from the kitchen. “Report- ers already came this morning. Give me your [phone] number, I’ll send you pictures when we are not busy.” “Go over across the


street. Over there they are already eating. There are reporters over there, and you can take pictures.” José Luis points me in the direction of Desayunador Salesiano. I take a stroll to where Haitians have been living.


Hundreds of Haitians


wander around the two blocks. Some walk aim- lessly around the area. A cute Haitian girl catcalls me, but I shy away. They all appear to have nice clothes. Many have smartphones,


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which they use constantly. They chatter in Haitian Creole, a mixture of French, Portuguese, Spanish, and West African. Haitians have been


scrutinized by journalists since they arrived, and I sense they’re starting to get sick of it. So I remain a casual observer and a friend hungry for some chicken. “Mademoiselle!


Madame! Amigo! Amiga! Comida, mas comida. Yo te pago. Dame cuatro!” José Luis is shouting. Chicken is ready. I head back to the


mechanic shop as they start serving food slowly. The Haitians with 100-, 200-, and 500-peso bills, shout and wave the money. The smell of garlic inflames their impatience and mine. “Ya pague! Plis


comida!” A Haitian finally gets a styrofoam box with poul fri, Haitian fried chicken on a bed of rice and beans, and some steamed onions, chilies, and tomatoes. “De comida, si. Yo, no.”


Before digging into his poul fri, a Haitian allows me to take a picture of his food but not him. The shutter of the camera startles some Haitians waiting for food, and they shout at me. One in particular demands to see the pictures, but others defend me and calm him down. “Si, si, si, el pollo muy bueno,” the Haitian tells me, but shies away when I ask him more questions. “Celular, ese de alla!


El mio. Conecta este. Mismo lugar.” The teen- age girl fetchs one of the many phones plugged inside the kitchen as she received another one to be plugged. She apologizes and tells the Haitian that it is barely charged. Another Haitian with three phones and a charger asks to be plugged in. The chaotic action


in the kitchen continues. Señora Rosalía serves


meals in styrofoam boxes, José Luis distributes the meals as he takes cash. The Haitian women cook calmly and wear noncha- lant smiles. More Haitians crowd outside the kitchen as José Luis demands patience. The chicken meal sells for 40 pesos, roughly $2.25 with the current dol- lar exchange. A cameraman from


Telemundo arrives with a large video camera and a tripod. He sets up next to the kitchen but the Haitians tell him not to film. He probes around but decides to remain distant. Sticking out like a sore


thumb among the Haitians, I’m intimidated when it comes to getting some chicken. “Amigo, amigo, tu eres alto. Mete, mete. La comida no acaba. Si no mete, no come.” The same Haitian that allowed me to take a picture of his food instructs me that if I want some chicken I’m going to have to nudge my way up through the crowd, other- wise I’ll never eat. Fortunately, José Luis


spots me in the crowd and, after delivering four por- tions to the Haitian next to me, asks me how many I want. It feels somewhat unfair to get some chicken before so many people waiting (though I have waited longer than many of the Haitians). I give José Luis 200 pesos for my two portions and walk away. A few steps from the


kitchen, a Haitian woman carrying a baby and a man holding a bag of dia- pers wait for the crowd to disperse. I offer them my second portion in Spanish but they seemed confused. I take the chicken out of the bag and give it to the man. “Bon apetit! Bienvenue!” I say, exhausting most of my French. He smiles broadly and says, “Merci.” Poul fri is marinated


with a lot of garlic, lemon juice, and Scotch bon-


net peppers, which are replaced by habaneros in this Tijuana version. The chicken is boiled, then fried. A lot of the flavors meld with the rice and beans. The chicken wasn’t very spicy, but the garlic taste lingered on my pal- ate all afternoon. Later that night I head


to a downtown bar near Little Haiti. As I order a beer, I overhear the bar- tender and customers talk- ing about the Haitians. The bartender tells me some Haitians have stepped in for a beer or two, others simply to use the bath- room, but that they never stay inside the bar for long. When I ask his opinion, he jokes, “Que se queden los Haitianos, y que se vayan los Sinaloenses.” (“Let the Haitians stay, and let the Sinaloans go.”) Though most Haitians


claim their final destination is the United States, not all are going to cross, and not many have the inten- tion of going back home. The maquila industry has offered hundreds of tem- porary and permanent jobs to Haitians as long as they fulfill their requirements with immigration to work in Mexico. Others have already started to work, get- ting paid under the table in kitchens and other shops. Like in many bars in


Tijuana, a jukebox stands in the corner. On it, I find a couple of Charles Mingus albums. There’s an album named Tijuana Moods, recorded in 1957 but not published until 1962. Min- gus, who grew up in Los Angeles, spent some time in the late ’50s and early ’60s strolling in Tijuana. Legend has it that Mingus has a son that was born and lives in Tijuana. I drop a coin in the


jukebox and select “Haitian Fight Song” in hopes that Haitians recognize the tune and feel welcome.


— Matthew Suárez ■


26 San Diego Reader January 5, 2017


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