I entered my first small-town pulquería, a place called Sal Si Puedes, with trepidation. The name itself was a warning: “Escape if You Can.” Two toothless patrons teetering on bar stools gazed as I ordered a pulque. The bartender handed me a chipped mug brimming with a viscous, milky liquid. Its warm, slimy, acrid taste made me want to spit it out. But all eyes were upon me. I managed to quaff enough to impart a pleasant buzz — hmm, this is starting to taste better, I thought to myself. I paid my 3 pesos and made my escape….
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