Katharina and I were pressing up against the wooden trough when I heard a woman’s voice behind me.
“Señor, señora, por favor, ven aquí,” she whispered. “Es muy peligroso.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice that it was dangerous and that we should come into her restaurant.
As we scurried the twenty feet toward the door, I whispered to Katharina, “We are German, right?” She nodded. No need to make the people who owned the Loro Azul restaurant regret helping two Americans.
We scrambled through the door and into a taco y tamal café about one third the size of Geissler’s Via Berlin.
“Muchas gracias,” I said.
“¡De nada!” said the woman who looked to be about fifty. Her graying hair was tied up in a bun. Next to her were seven other people who I took to be relatives or customers. One of them
