When they got there, Santa refused to go inside the lowly eating house, a place that she had gone several times at the whim of her rich friends, who went there to taste the food of the common people, expertly done at Las Ratas, which is the only positive thing about the otherwise dirty, crumbling, and germ-ridden little establishment, with generally the worst sort of clientele that shows up half drunk on pulque and leaves completely drunk on it. The rich boys go there “slumming,” when they go out in a bunch to “paint the town red” with their hired girlfriends. They have a good meal and, often enough, share a glass with some humble artisan at the big common table, a shy fellow who politely accepts the offer of a drink and may even reciprocate. The same polite artisan is capable of impressive violence, however, if he perceives the slightest hint of condescension or fun at his expense, so the slumming clubmen behave with moderation. Therefore, and also because the place shuts its doors at eleven o'clock sharp, rarely does loud quarreling disturb the neighborhood. There may be the rowdy sound of a popular dance, admittedly, or of a romantic ballad that seems less melancholy when mixed with noisy carousing and the occasional belch. Otherwise, it is an almost-respectable little dive, far superior to its multitudinous competitors, the pulque shops that spring up like nettles in poor neighborhoods, teeming anthills that one positively cannot venture into without risk. The owner of the tavern on Las Ratas Street, a fat and jolly fellow to look at him, has been around the block more than once. He knows the weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and vices of the clubmen. He truly feels sorry for them, but since he can do nothing about these characteristics of theirs, he has resolved to exploit them quietly and systematically. The man formerly waited tables in restaurants and he retains certain attributes of waiters: the clean-shaven face, the ready smile, the unreliable math. He stands behind a counter and presses his distended belly over the money drawer that nobody ever opens but him. Just to his right stand the three barrels of pulque that steadily transform liquid into money. The waiters are supposed to show him every dish they serve, and though he affects not to pay attention, nothing escapes him. Directly in front of him is the door to the kitchen, and not a single enchilada comes out of it without his knowing. His chin in his hands, he watches placidly over the clientele, drowsing with the jaded air of an old cat who allows the mice to squeal and play, within limits. His earnings are assured. He smiles at everybody, extends credit to nobody, and reads the newspaper, El Imparcial, in the early evening. The poor customers respectfully call him “don,” but the clubmen address him casually as “tú,” the way they are accustomed to do with waiters.

“Have them send the food out to the coach,” Santa ordered the coachman. “Get it good and spicy. You can eat yours up on the driver's seat.”