After eternity, the line abates — from here I recall only flashes of memory: A sweating taquero rotating and pruning a dripping pile of meat on an enormous trompo (spit); sounds of enthusiastic late-night dining, volume turned up a few decibels by whatever revelry had preceded; a thick cacophony of Spanish that I could not understand; platters of delicate tortillas; cigarette smoke; glistening and colourful meat, oozing cheese, tiny potatoes and fragrant fried onions; a crimson cow stencilled on tile so white, the effect was nearly surgical; a liter of agua de jamaica in a cold steel cup like the kind you find in American diners; dulche de leche ice cream; for some reason a stroopwaffel.