Fending Off Añoranzas at the Flea Market
Fending Off Añoranzas at the Flea Market
Squash Blossom Quesadillas in North Carolina
It’s Saturday morning. A collection of second-hand watches laid on a table in front of me say it is just past 10 am.
As usual, I’ve skipped out on breakfast at my house, saving my appetite for what delights are to be had at Smiley’s Flea Market, a Mecca of Latin American food and culture in the rural mountains of Western North Carolina.
I set off on what has become my Saturday morning routine, consisting of a jaunt through the market before heading to Nopalitos, my restaurant of choice. Between the fuzz of a slight hangover and the overwhelming spectrum of smells, sounds, and people around me, the unfurling chaos of the market is slightly bewildering.
I give up on trying to use logic to navigate this labyrinth, allowing my nose to lead me instead. Weaving through the aisles—packed with everything from cowboy boots to bootleg CDs—I pass by churros caramelizing in hot oil, the unmistakable earthiness of chiles poblanos roasting over an open flame, the sweet puffs of steam rolling away from freshly made corn tortillas as they hit the grill. Finally, I emerge in front of my destination, a strange orange building tucked behind a derelict carousel.
Like most businesses at Smiley’s, Nopalitos is a family establishment, owned and operated by three brothers from Hidalgo, Mexico. After having eaten here every weekend for the better part of six months, I’m practically part of the family. Coming here is now just as much about the people as it is about the food. I greet individuals of three generations before taking a deep breath and making the biggest decision of my day: what to eat.
This morning, I’ll skip the menudo, a spicy tripe soup (and famous Mexican hangover cure), opting instead for something I know for sure will settle my stomach and soothe my soul: a squash blossom quesadilla and some fish tacos for good measure. To wash it all down, an icy horchata spiked with cinnamon and vanilla.
The food is placed before me in an uncomplicated manner on paper-lined trays. I’ve run into a friend, Héctor, who has been here since dawn selling vegetables for a guy they call “Mariachi.” Though he already has a good job and doesn’t need the extra pay, Héctor still makes the trip to Smiley’s every weekend, mainly to socialize and enjoy a meal or two.
Wiping tangy salsa verde from his hands, Héctor tells me that coming here is his way of fending off añoranzas, a word used frequently by Latino migrants that translates into “homesickness, longing, sense of loss.” For him and many others, Smiley’s is much more than just a place to peruse the aisles and people-watch. It is a place where the smells, sounds, flavors, culture, and sense of community create an environment powerful enough to fill a void, offering a tenuous hold onto familiarity and comfort. As I savor the moment provided by the good food and good company, I, too, feel closer to home.