LITTLE SONORA
PRETENDING TO NURSE A LONG-FINISHED CUP OF COFFEE, I lurk on a bar stool inside Tucson’s Mercado San Agustin, my eyes trained on the small sweet shop across the way. I’m starting to feel like a predator stalking its prey. My mark? The Sonoran coyota: a flaky, golden-brown pastry that can be filled with anything from whole cane sugar to caramelised goat’s milk.
The woman working the counter at Dolce Pastello has told me a fresh supply will be here shortly. Having already polished off a few coyotas here yesterday, I shamelessly eavesdrop on her phone conversations to learn exactly when I might score some more. At some point, I’ve surmised, a call will come from a coyota-bearing man in the car park, who’ll need help getting inside.
Until then, I watch and I wait, determined not to fall prey to the market’s other distractions: the earthy scent of fire-roasted chillies wafting from the taco shop with the queue out the door; the hypnotic spirals of powdered cinnamon adorning the rice milk horchata in so many shoppers’ hands; and the periodic whir of the machine heralding fresh batches of shaved ice, each mound a blank canvas for the rainbow of lime, mango, pineapple and tamarind syrups behind the counter.
The scene
