Hot and Sweaty Salsa

She's sticking to herself like white on rice, that's how uncomfortably close this weather is. In a thin white dress shirt no less, soaked through from armpit to armpit so that the circles meet up across her chest. A boob circle of see-through cotton. It's so oppressively hot no one looks twice, for better or worse. Tara has forsaken any sense of modesty. Humping heavy plates in and out of a hotbox kitchen, nimbly skirting frantic chefs and melting busboys, elbow deep in dishpans, bodies slick with sweat, hair plastered to foreheads or bandanas dripping with moisture. A Dali painting come to life.  Order up! Bells clang, ceramic tableware clicks and clacks off the stainless countertops, three different languages weave in and out of the cacophony of sound, a constant hum of tension, like a bow being drawn across the highest fret of a violin, the hairs threatening to split and fray, coming undone like silk from the ear of a corn. It's amazing people can eat in this heat. Tara has a full section, sucking back pitcher after pitcher of ice water, iced coffees, sangria, Coronas. Tacos, empanadas, burritos, beans and rice, salsa verde- evidently there's something about Mexican cuisine that makes sense to people in humid, ridiculously hot climes. As a northerner, Tara doesn't get it. She's ingested 3 gallons of iced water with lemon, sugar and salt to keep her from passing out. None of that artificially coloured and sweetened commercial sport drink stuff. That makes her loony and La Cantina Tacqueria is crazy enough. Joser leans into Jefe and says something Tara can't quite hear. They erupt in laughter so deep and full and jubilant that the entire kitchen stops. Tara shifts the three plates of Elotes a la Parilla on her forearms and waits. Then as if on cue, everyone falls apart, laughing, giggling, towel-snapping and high fiving. It's all in Spanish so Tara has no idea what's going on but it's as if a cool wind blew in from the east. Everyone's temperment shifts and mellows. Smiles all around, and Joser turns up the radio. Spontaneous salsa dance party, hips gyrating, feet flying and arms flailing, hoots, hollers and joy. Hot, sweaty, joy.