De-Mystifying the Salsa Lady

            There’s something about summertime mornings in Eugene that makes me — morning curmudgeon and all — happy for no reason. On a regular Tuesday morning, I would grudgingly get out of bed, throw on running leggings and a sweater, and burn my tongue on the coffee from my travel mug as I clumsily pushed my way through the junk to sit down in my car. But on this Tuesday , I throw my covers off, eagerly egging goosebumps to pop out of my skin. The few cool minutes of the morning are refreshing and fleeting, and I eagerly shower, don a fully composed outfit, and plod outside to greet my worthy steed.

            A steed in Eugene Oregon is not a horse, but a bike. I cruise from my house near the University on my pink and purple “Hard Rock Specialized”, pedaling slow enough to breathe through my nose but fast enough to feel a breeze. A mere fifteen minutes, and I reach my destination, armed with my uncharacteristic good spirits. The Eugene Farmers market! A place I have been before, a place where I know people, a place where I know exactly what I want.

            Before heading to the farm stand with fresh purple garlic and pattypan squash, I finally plucked up the courage to go and ask the salsa lady why she puts her face on the label of all of her salsas.

            “I wanted to make sure everybody knew that it was made by a real Mexican lady,” she says, in perfect unaccented English. She’s wearing a baby pink top, adorned with small cloth roses. It reminds me of ads for authentic Spanish fiestas in New Mexico. Underneath, she wears cut-off jean shorts. She looks exactly like she does in the picture on all of the tubs of salsa in front of her: long brown hair, bright white teeth surrounded by big, red lips. Her eyebrows are neatly groomed and she is smiling. “Salsa Garcia” is what she calls her product line. Her full name is Patricia Garcia Rogers, and though she calls herself Mexican, she quickly and honestly notes that she’s actually from “Mexicali” — on the American side of the border.

            Garcia put out samples of salsa in small plastic cups as we talked. Eagerly, I picked up the salsa verde. In high school in New Mexico, there was a burrito and taco shop that my friends and I would go to after class got out. They had a fresh salsa bar, and I began a lifelong habit there of eating salsa straight. No chips, no taco, no tortilla. As Garcia’s Salsa Verde hit my tongue, I wondered where she bought chiles in a place so stereotypically non-diverse and generally spicy-averse as Oregon.

            “Oh, usually Cash and Carry,” she says, casually. “Because I make such big quantities, it’s really hard to go organic.” It’s funny that she brings up the organic issue without me even asking. She has obviously been asked about the sourcing of her products before.

            Salsa Garcia is smack in the middle of the market. To her left, a jewelry crafter waits patiently as a few people mingle and peer at her silver and glass bracelets and necklaces. To her right, a woman selling blueberries and nothing else deals with a line of customers, the ones in front quizzing her about the specific varietal of berry, harvesting procedure, and carrying containers. No line moves fast at this market. It’s a place to ask questions, to let your eyes wander, to run into people that you know.

            I spent $7.50 on a tub of Salsa Verde before proceeding to buy my veggies and explore the few places that offer samples multiple times. I fork over the cash, more than happily, because Garcia is honestly, calmly, and systematically trying to play for profit in the real capitalistic world. She’s selling her ethnicity, selling her small-town-ness, selling her beauty. But, she’s also selling some salsa that is particularly tasty when it’s accompanied with sautéed pattypan squash, fresh garlic, and farm-raised scrambled eggs. And because she’s situated in Eugene, where all of these things are available, it makes her product totally compatible. You have to be flexible in your moral standards somewhere, even in the so-called hippie haven of liberal Eugene.

The Black Forest, Downtown Eugene.

It looks like this place has been closed for at least a year. The windows outside are dark, and a man and woman were lingering outside when I approached. The man’s face is tanned, dirty, and his red shirt was almost brown.

“How you doin’?’ he asked, as I locked my bike to one of the ample bike racks in front of the bike store next door. I note his appearance and decide not to respond. Instead, I pull open the wood-covered door.

“You should describe this place as dank and musty,” Alec says, after I dutifully explain that I am here to write a travel blog about downtown Eugene. He has short blond hair, blue eyes, and a snarky, over-confident nasal voice. It seems like he screams “chemistry major” from every pore of his body, but I think that happened only after I found out what he was majoring in. He’s quiet until you ask him one question that he really thinks he can answer. (Topics vary from drugs to chemistry formulas, Israel to the Onion).

“I come here because of Sasha,” Thomas says. He sits in the stool to Alec’s right, and I take the one next to him. His black hair is in a messy bun, his gaze firmly fixed on the fish tank above the bar. Sasha is the big catfish — approximately one foot long — swimming lazily back and forth along with two other fish half her size, and a few smaller ones more along the normal fish-tank-fish size. The name “Mickey” is written in pink across the front of the tank, but none of the fish are actually named Mickey.

“Can I see you’re ID, hon?” the bartender asks, after Thomas finishes quizzing him about the fish’s livelihoods. As usual, I fumble with my wallet to pull out my ID. Someday, I’ll get a wallet with an ID sleeve that’s easier to maneuver. But as long as I’m living in Eugene, and going to bars like the Black Forest, the amount of shame I feel at wasting a bartender’s time is not motivation enough.

Some kind of 80s music is playing at a medium dull hum, just a little bit louder than some lady at the bar’s yells. I realize I first saw her outside the door — with the man who in split judgement mode I would call Sketchy. She wears a clean white blouse, and her hair looks like it was done in elegant curls a few days ago and then slept on. She is trying to sing along to the music, but her voice is painful to listen to. She is not in the same mental space as the rest of us. Alec, however, orders another shot. He’s headed her way.

“Mickey’s dead.” Alec says, suddenly passionate enough so that I hear his voice over the bar din. I’ve missed some conversation, because not many people are used to talking over someone else trying to put together a cohesive story while they hang out at a bar. Thomas and Alec had reverted to talking about the fish tank again. They have now concluded that Mickey’s name is on the fish tank because his body is there no longer. He hit the toilet bowl, and is for now memorialized at the Black Forest.

There are exactly 20 brightly lit screens that make the Black forest not so black. Keno machines enliven the black bar counter, video lottery screens brighten the hallway to the bathroom. The bathroom’s alcohol-intense pee smell drifts occasionally out into the rest of the dark bar, but never in a constant enough draft to be absolutely unpleasant. A band is beginning to set up, but Alec and Thomas say it is time to go.

“I only come here for the fish,” Thomas says. I wouldn’t believe him, but I know that he’s telling the truth because the Black Forest hardly ever even advertises the bands that they host in the Eugene Weekly. And the Eugene Weekly posts advertisements for “Yoga with Dave!” and “Overeaters Anonymous”. Bars like this are only good to come to if you need some serious introspection, some serious self-removal, or have some really weird friends.

 

The Black Forest is at 50 East 11th Avenue, Eugene, OR 97401.