The Tamale Lady
I've lived on the same streets on the northwest side of Chicago for 40 years. The old blocks have changed some in those four decades, but not much. Most of the houses are the same. A good number of the people too.
The old neighborhood is today as it always has been: a refuge for the immigrant working class. Poles and Mexicans mainly, along with some Italian and Irish holdouts.
For as long as I can remember the neighborhood was full of pushcarts. A steady traffic of steaming old-country dishes and bright sodas poured from big liter bottles.
My favorite was the tamale lady from up the block. You could set your watch by the tamale lady.
Dressed all in black she'd come up the street at exactly 2:30pm every day, chiming her bicycle bell as she headed toward the nearby public school. There she'd set up camp on the corner and peddle hot shredded chicken tamales until foot traffic died down. Then she'd head to the park in time for baseball practice.
Her tamales were good. Homemade, Oaxacan style. Always served with a bright salsa verde. And always cheap.
I haven't seen the tamale lady all summer. Most of the pushcarts have been absent this year. But the old neighborhood is full of signs that weren't there before. They read: Keep ICE Out of Chicago.
