I dragged Rafael away and we headed on foot to the address I’d been given. It proved to be a streetside—a cantina that specialized in pulque, a drink made from fermented maguey cactus. The place wasn’t much more than a hole in the wall—literally. Just a large, square, concrete-walled space that could be closed off from the street by a rolldown metal door. No windows and no decor, save for battered-looking plastene tables and chairs that looked as though they’d been boosted from a public picnic area. Its floor was covered in coarse sawdust.