During the era of the Depression, it's kind of odd, they actually had a culture of sorts amongst Spanish food stands. Women would cook "sleeping beans" - beans slow-cook overnight - and serve them with rice and tortillas whilst salsa-dancing to attract customers. It wasn't a risque affair like it might seem, but a cheery, raucous sort of thing. Tamaleros sold tamales from the backs of carts and old cars. Goodwill, low prices, and good eats.
It kind of died overnight when the U.S. Government enforced stricter business and food protocol, demanding paperwork and credentials for the stands of the impoverished Spanish immigrants who were serving equally impoverished workers. There wasn't exactly enough money to be had to just license a business. It was kind of a impromptu sort of affair to start with, y'know?
You're probably wondering why I'm sitting here talking about Spanish food culture at 12:46 AM. A man was killed a couple years ago. I heard his story and it breaks my heart - I'd like to believe in Karma, and have faith that all happens for a reason, and that we tend our gardens accordingly as per Candide's claim, but I can't explain this guy's death. There's just no reason for it.
Cosme Gonzalez was forty-eight when he died. He was a Spanish man living in Los Angeles, California. He was from Acapulco, Mexico and was known for, delicious cooking aside, his signature hat and thin moustache. He sold Champurrado - a thick Spanish drink kind of like Hot Cocoa - alongside his famous Tamales and simple things like pillows, fruit and corn from his station wagon, as he had for twenty years. His neighborhood was poor, and if you couldn't spare two dollars Cosme was known to give them out free.
A man who knew him said, "Not one free tamale, but two. That's how good of a guy he was."
He'd call "Tamales! Champurrado-!" though his hands three times a day, and ring his hand-bell to attract customers, and children liked him because he would dance on occasion to entertain them as they ate - a homage to older times.
There's a lot of crime in the Westlake district of L.A. Mostly Mara Salvatrucha. Mexican Mafia.
They like to view street merchants as quick fixes. They usually don't have anyone there to protect them. They don't have papers. It's kind of like pulling a gun at a garage sale and demanding the little tool-box full of one-dollar bills.
Cosme Gonzalez's sister really admired him for not letting himself be shook-down by the Mexican Mafia. He played his game fair until the day he died. And he played it generous, kind, and loving. There a man named Werner Francisco. He is nicknamed "Blue", and while most gang-members in the area don't openly pack heat, he does and did, and demanded the tamalero's money. As Cosme turned to run, Francisco shot him three times in the back. Cosme was ultimately pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
He had a wife of ten years, and three children; a nine year-old son, and two daughters who were five and three at the time.
The officer who informed his wife said he simply gave her the blood-spattered earnings that Cosme had tried to run with and held her when she cried. They never caught Werner Francisco, either.
Here are two photos of Cosme. He is the kind of man I admire and I don't understand under what circumstances the world is bettered without him. He deserves better than to be gunned down by some crime-syndicate thug.
A testimony to simplicity and selflessness was shot to death on 325 South Witmer Avenue, February 27, and I don't know why.
I don't know. I just hope that I can do right by this guy. That I can follow his example. When I'm in a position to, maybe I should volunteer medical expertise. Work a free clinic or something. But for now, I light a candle for him three years overdue.
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