The Mercado Encounter | Encuentro en el Mercado
"A chance meeting at the local Mexican market turns into a passionate cooking date that simmers into something more"
The Mercado Encounter
Encuentro en el Mercado
I was arguing with the produce vendor about the quality of his chiles serranos when she interrupted.
"Los del fondo son mejores," she said, reaching past me to dig through the bin. The ones in the back are better.
I turned to find a woman with curves that could stop traffic and a smile that could start wars. Her dark hair was piled messily on her head, and she wore a sundress that made the mercado feel like a fashion runway.
"Gracias," I managed.
"De nada." She held up a perfect pepper. "Para qué los necesitas?"
"Salsa verde." My mother's recipe. "It's my first time making it alone."
Her eyebrows rose. "Alone? For who?"
"Just me. My mom usually..." I trailed off, not wanting to explain that my mother was gone six months now and I was still trying to recreate her recipes to feel close to her.
Something softened in the woman's eyes. "Ven," she said simply. Come. "Te ayudo a escoger todo lo que necesitas."
Her name was Isabella, and she moved through the mercado like she owned it—greeting vendors in rapid Spanish, squeezing avocados with expert fingers, holding tomatillos up to the light.
"Este no," she'd say, tossing one back. Not this one. "Este sí. Mira el color."
I followed her like a disciple, my basket filling with ingredients I hadn't known I needed.
"You know a lot about cooking," I said.
"Mi abuela owned a restaurant in Oaxaca." She smiled, selecting bunches of cilantro. "I grew up in the kitchen."
At the checkout, I tried to pay for her items too, but she waved me off with a laugh.
"No seas tonto." Don't be silly. "Save your money for more chiles. You'll burn through them learning."
"Can I at least buy you a coffee? As a thank you?"
She considered me—really looked at me—and I felt seen in a way that made my skin warm.
"Algo mejor." Something better. "Teach me your mother's salsa. I'll teach you my grandmother's."
"Your place or mine?"
"La tuya." She smiled. "You have the chiles."
My apartment had never felt small until Isabella was in it—filling the kitchen with her laughter, her Spanish, her presence.
"Primero, los tomatillos," she instructed, showing me how to remove the papery husks. "First, the tomatillos. You roast them until they're soft. Hasta que estén suavecitos."
Her hands guided mine, positioning the peppers under the broiler. Her body pressed against my back as she reached around me to adjust the flame.
"Así," she murmured. Like this. "Not too high. You want to tease them, not torture them."
"Is that a cooking philosophy or a life philosophy?" I asked, turning my head.
Her face was inches from mine. "Both."
"Isabella..."
"Dime." Tell me.
"I don't usually invite strangers to my apartment."
"I don't usually accept." She didn't move away. "But something about you..."
"What about me?"
"Me recuerdas a alguien." You remind me of someone. Her finger traced my jawline. "Someone I haven't met yet but want to know."
The salsa burned while we kissed. Neither of us cared.
She tasted like the lime she'd been squeezing, bright and sharp and perfect. Her curves pressed against me as I backed her against the counter, my hands finding the warm skin beneath her sundress.
"We should check the tomatillos," she breathed.
"Let them burn."
She laughed, and the sound vibrated through me. "An expensive lesson."
"Worth the cost."
We made it to the couch, then the floor, then eventually the bed. Her body was a landscape I wanted to memorize—every curve, every soft place, every spot that made her gasp in Spanish.
"Aquí," she would say, guiding my hands. Here. "Así me gusta."
"Tell me more."
"Más fuerte... más despacio... no pares..."
I learned her the way she'd taught me to select produce—carefully, thoroughly, appreciating every detail.
After, we lay tangled in my sheets, and she traced the outline of my face with one finger.
"Tu salsa está arruinada," she said. Your salsa is ruined.
"Worth it."
"We should try again."
"The salsa?"
"Todo." Everything. She kissed me softly. "The salsa. This. Us."
"Us?"
"If you want." For the first time, she looked uncertain. "I know we just met, but..."
"Sí," I said, pulling her closer. "Quiero intentarlo todo contigo."
"Your Spanish is getting better already."
"I have a good teacher."
"Hmm." She straddled my waist, looking down at me. "And I'm a very thorough teacher."
"Demuéstramelo." Prove it.
She did—all night, in lessons I'd never forget.
In the morning, she made me salsa verde from scratch while wearing my shirt, and it was better than my mother's had ever been. I didn't tell her that. Some things were sacred.
But watching her move through my kitchen, singing cumbia under her breath, tasting and adjusting and creating—I thought maybe I'd found something just as sacred.
"Saturday markets?" I asked, wrapping my arms around her from behind.
"Every week. Same time."
"It's a date."
"The first of many, I hope." She turned in my arms and kissed me properly. "Mi amor."
My love. In three words, she'd given me something I hadn't known I'd been missing.
"El primero de muchos," I agreed. The first of many.
And it was.