Inside the pulquería itself, a scruffy-looking collection of young street punks—all of them with the sharp cheekbones and dusky skin of their Aztec and Mayan forebears—sat sipping a foamy white beverage through straws that allowed them to drink without removing their breathers. They looked like gangers. They had the lean, hungry, watchful look of the street and wore the heavy gold jewelry that served as their badge of honor, showing they’d made it to the top of their particular drekpile. More than one had earlobes that were distended by heavy gold ear plugs like the ones I’d seen in Alberto’s shop. Several had gold-plated breathers.