Cocina economicas are like wedding announcements in the Sunday Times; I am at once enthralled and defeated by their existence.

Because today, our brains are still damp from last night’s tequila, we thought it would be kind of funny to pick up lunch from Oxxo, the local chain of convenience stores.

Convenience stores being the mead halls of our lost suburban youth, we feel a certain nostalgic attraction to the tidily-packed shelves of uniform chips and cookies, the frosty bank of colorful beverages, the shiny microwave and coffee station, the plumped and glistening dogs, quietly pitching eternity on the grill and yes, the pre-packaged sandwiches and salads stocked in the coldish case.

I’m gonna say this without doubt or remorse. In the sacrosanct world of convenience dining, the ideal meal is the hard boiled egg with salt and pepper pack, plus an apple, maybe a bag of baby carrots, and a low-fat string cheese. I don’t make this shit up; it’s just science.

This day, the gods of stoned teenagers, harried secretaries, and truck drivers were not smiling down on your heroes. We did our very best, with a selection that was becoming less fresh visibly, and fast. Malcolm went for the ham pate and Philadelphia cream cheese pinwheels, which were adorable and menacing in a Tinky Winky kind of way. I perused the white bread-based options circumspectly, and settled on one layered with jamon de pavo (turkey ham), jamon de pechuga de pavo (turkey breast ham), jamon de puerco (your basic pig ham), manchego cheese (the salty white stuff) and lettuce. No condiments to embellish a sufficiently hammy concoction. It seemed innocuous enough.

With a bursting plastic bag of booty, we hightailed it back to headquarters, ravenous and giddy. Giddenous and ravvy.

The various articles on my Bimbo triangles boiled down to a pile of snappy pink cold meats, all indistinguishable from one another, and a thin slice of limp cheese grazing the plastered lettuce.

Malcolm, a man who has happily supped on Ramen mashed potatoes and 9 lbs of Sonic burger took one bite of rollup and pronounced it non-food. I diligently removed a Technicolor Dreamcoat of deli slices, and nibbled on the green remains. No surprises, really, but sadness prevailed all the same.

30 minutes passed, and we were trying to make the synapses fire on nothing; we need fuel to work. Across the corner of 82 and 31, the newest cocina economica in Progreso beckoned like a $12.00 hooker in a $5.00 tube top.  The sign said, “Pollo Asada con sopa de Lima,” and I heard its call. I dashed off, clutching my 50 peso bill.

I confess that I have avoided these charming neighborhood kitchens, for fear they require etiquette I unknowingly lack. Will I be expected to have my own takeaway containers? My fear allayed, I was pleased to find myself in a neat little room decorated with pretty curtains and four tidy tables, like a little doll’s house. In 5 minutes, my order arrived wrapped in plastic, I was charged $27 pesos, and I spirited myself back to the office again.

The daily special came complete with 5 fresh corn tortillas, a side salad, a piece of grilled chicken, and about a quart of noodle soup. And while it was not the best home cooking we have had here, this stuff had depth, texture, flavor and warmth, which compared quite favorably to our earlier choices that were most reminiscent of a hospital Eucharist plucked from an orifice of Pete Doherty.

The food made by women in these home based business is manna, heaven sent goodness to soothe the weary soul.