Event which involves a fight between at least two animals ... for purposes of sport, wagering, or entertainment (7USC2156)

When TJ told me a group of people were going to the weekend-afternoon bullfight, I enthusiastically said I wanted to go along, forgetting that this would entail more than your casual beer-swilling sporting event – in particular, the deaths of animals, six to be exact. Although I began to get butterflies even before we left, I wanted to do justice to this tradition, considering this was probably going to be the one and only time, so I suggested sitting on the sol, or sun, side (as opposed to the sombra, or shade, side), where we could pay less to be closer to the action.

I am no PETA representative; I am aware that animals die in order for me to eat, but still, I don’t like to spend an afternoon at the meat-packing plant. And for those who say I should have to see the slaughterhouse show, I disagree. There are plenty of things that people need to stay alive, but that people don't watch for viewing pleasure. A colonoscopy comes to mind.

My main problem is, I generally identify with animals more than the people; I have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing. At one point, I thought a bull was behaving like Sage, whom I consider part-human, by bouncing around the ring in a devil-may-care frolic. Another one reminded me of Ferdinand, famed in story by Munro Leaf and in film by Walt Disney, as he sniffed around the ring, possibly at the sanguine traces of his friends. So it was a bit hard to watch an animal running around bleeding; I prefer my bloody cattle stationary on a plate.

The other problem is, the ritual of this slaying takes a lot longer than your typical bovinicide. In an attempt to be somewhat objective, I will explain this lengthy process. In the event we went to, there were three cuadrillas, or teams of fighters, that faced two bulls each over a three-hour period -- that's about 15 cents per bull-butchering minute. Before the action began, they were introduced in a parade.

Each bullfight involves three stages, or tercios, which begin after the just-agitated (by a barb put in its neck) bull is welcomed by the matador, the fanciest-dressed dude, and three other toreros, his entourage, who get a feel for the bull by taunting it with capotes, or capes, oftentimes leading it to crash into the ring’s barriers as they take cover.

In the first tercio, two picadores, or lancers, enter on horseback. They and their horses sport extensive protective covering; the men had stirrups that looked like mini-backhoes, and the horses wore the kind of padding you see strapped to gym walls, except this cushion has to stop bucking horns, not bolting adolescents. The picadores carry varas, more like long spears than lances, which they attempt to thrust into the bull’s neck as it charges the horse. This assault draws first blood.

In the second tercio, the three henchmen, now in the role of banderilleros, take turns trying to stab two banderilleras, or spikes, into the bull’s shoulders. This stage seems much more sporting as this requires the banderillero to get within close range of a now-enraged bull.

In the last tercio, the matador is left alone in the ring with only the bull and his muleta, the quintessential red cape. Here begins the traditional dance of tandas, or passes, in which the matador is sometimes close enough to pat the bull on the rump. During a series of good passes, the crowd will linguistically butt-tap the bullfighter by chanting “olé, olé.”

This dance, or faena, concludes with the matador killing the bull by stabbing it through the shoulder blades to the heart with the estoque, or sword. In an ideal world, this estocada would be done in one clean stroke, but with five of the bulls we saw, the other toreros had to intervene in the faena to help the matador get his muleta or estoque back for a second, third, and sometimes fourth or fifth try, like with Rafael Ortega's second bull.

All throughout the tercios, the audience share their opinions of the cuadrilla’s performance. If the bull seems to deserve to win, the crowd will shout “toro, toro” to the bullring’s president, petitioning him to spare its life. Although we heard some of these shouts, along with taunts of “culo” (I'll let you look up that word for yourself), during the first round with Alberto Espinoza, no bull survived. All were drug off by mules after their demise.

If the matador exhibits masterful skills, the crowd waves white handkerchiefs, pressuring the president to award the fighter one of the bull’s ears as a badge of honor. Humberto Flores proudly displayed this reward in a victory lap, in his debut at the Bullring by the Sea.

And now for the subjective assessment. There actually were some positives about my experience. Despite the seemingly skimpy number of spectators, the atmosphere was festive, much more interactive than, say, an Indians game. This exhibition came with a complete pep band, not just one guy with a drum.

The in-stand cuisine was more extensive -- and less expensive ($3 for a beer!) -- than at a ballgame. The vendors hawked everything from fruit plates to fried chicken, half-melted ice cream to piping-hot potato chips. And of course, trays of beef jerky, which I would describe as "fresh" if it weren't obviously smoked.

Nevertheless, once is enough. I came, I saw, I commit this post and these photos as confirmation of my singular cultural and agricultural investigation.

Flagrant and willful removal of taxable beer for consumption (26USC5673)

Since TJ is taking classes online, his weekends are tied up with assignments, but I have been able to negotiate at least one outing a weekend. Not so strangely enough, the last two trips have involved pizza and beer. For one, we ventured to the "mercato," or farmers market in Little Italy. After picking up some eggs, brussel sprouts, avocado/cilantro hummus, almonds, wheat bread, and herb plants as well as snacking on some samosas, farm-raised oysters, fresh-squeezed tangerine juice, and organic coffee, we stopped by Landini's Pizzeria for lunch.

We were drawn in by the special: two slices and a draft for $8. TJ thought we were going to split the deal, but the pizza looked so good that we each got our own. The beer was great, too, as two Karl Strauss selections were on tap; TJ picked the Red Trolley Ale, and I opted for the Amber Lager. But we did share the view of downtown San Diego from the restaurant's patio.
On the way to our car, we dropped into Bottlecraft, where we picked up some other microbrews from California. The cashier there suggested that we head to Beer City in Tijuana, so we could find some bottles from an up-and-coming Baja microbrewer, Cerveceria Insurgente. So when we resumed our overseas tradition of getting pizza after work on Fridays, we swung by Beer City before picking up our 2-for-1 pizzas from Mama Mia. Unfortunately, the store didn't have any Insurgente at the moment, but we picked out four types of suds to sample with our pies. We started with the lightest one, Honey by Cerveza Cucapa.
The Mexicali brewery described the amber ale as such: "A frothy entry leads to a dry-yet-fruity medium body of candied citrus peels, mild spice, flan, and toasted grains." I actually thought it was lacking in fizz and was a bit flat, but at least it wasn't syrupy like Honey Brown. I definitely detected the faint smell of burnt sugar. TJ thought it was a good balance of lightness and bitterness, like a "spring sunset over Playas de Tijuana." Next up was Zacas by Zona Norte Cerveza Artesanal.
This English pale ale is probably named after Zacatecas, a city and state in central Mexico, home to "people of the grasslands" who were conquered by the Spanish for potential mining lands in the 1540s. The beer better matched the brewery's name, probably after the red-light district of Tijuana, because it was, in just a few of TJ's adjectives, "contaminated, raw, and hyperactive." The beer was extremely foamy; it exploded for a guy at Beer City and for us at home, indicating that it wasn't quite finished; the ale was unfiltered, and the unsettled yeast made it taste vinegary. But TJ's final declaration was that it was "like a beer I've made by mistake -- amateurish with an undertone of promise." The third sip was Batari Chonami by Cerveza Ramuri.
This brewery's name possibly refers to the Rarámuri, a tribe of "runners on foot" from Chihuahua that fled to the Copper Canyon during the Spanish Conquest. "Batari" refers to a traditional alcoholic drink in the north-central Mexican state made from fermented corn sprouts. I couldn't find the meaning of "Chonami," but TJ's translation was "good, really good," which he said about the beer three times. The label said this London brown ale was a "dark beer with soft notes of brown sugar." I also got hints of coffee, which reminded me of my favorite Czech beer, Kozel Cerny. Not surprisingly, TJ was reminded of one of his favorite Czech beers, Krušovice Cerne. Last up was the Oatmeal Stout by Cerveza Agua Caliente.
Neither the brewery's site or the bottle's label gave us much to go on, which wasn't much of a surprise considering this was probably the closest to a true home brew (The labels appeared to be of the laser-printer variety). But it also was the closest to what it purported to be. It was fuller than the brown ale, and it had the sour taste of oatmeal and the bold flavor of malt, as opposed to the more subtle brown sugar. TJ criticized it for finishing on an up note when it should have been a down note. But overall, the beer was a decent end to our four-quaff-flight night. Check back occasionally for more beer reviews as we try to branch out from pizza shops to taco stands.

Wine or beer on the occasion of any kind of entertainment, dance, picnic, bazaar, or festival (26USC5122)

Now that our employment roles have been reversed, I arrived to Mexico knowing that TJ was ready for me to play cruise director, especially on weekends, since he had little time or energy to make plans during the week. So I spent most of my first week making sure I would be ready to take the helm, but nonetheless, I still hit an iceberg. America's Finest Beer Festival, which I thought sounded like the finest way to relax, was canceled at the last minute.

This prompted my first homemaker rite of passage: I directed TJ to go play golf with the guys. Afterward, of course, he owed me, so I dragged him to a more cheesy pursuit, the U.S. Open Sandcastle Competition across the border in Imperial Beach.
Actually, I lured him with Rite Aid ads, which promised a variety of beer cases on sale. Other people, it seemed, needed no such bait. The strand around Imperial Beach's famous pier was crammed with enthusiasts of sandy chateaus.
We only glanced at about a half-dozen sculptures before we headed to the street fair and main attraction (for me, anyway): the food. TJ got a grilled chipotle sausage; me, an equally pork-packed bacon-wrapped hot dog. We shared "Baja" fries with chili, guacamole, cheese, salsa, and sour cream. As you can see, we had to sit on the curb because the street was filled to the hilt.
If nothing else, the festival was good for people watching -- or mocking. Like the post-middle-aged guy in the T-shirt with a Tide-style "Stud" logo. Or the dude in the Attila the Hun fur hat but no shirt. At least he was ink-free; as TJ said, southern California appears to have an "egregious" amount of tattoos. Even the entertainment was rockin' some fashion, if you consider a Selena-inspired leopard-print shirt and tight pink jeans stylish.
We sipped the rest of our agua frescas as we walked back to our car through the Tijuana River National Estuarine Research Reserve. Across the estuary, we could see our city of residence, including the Plaza Monumental bullring at Playas de Tijuana (I swear, it's there along the shore in the distance).
After a stop at the aforementioned Rite Aid, we were looking at Tijuana from the inside at the Festival de la Brasa, where we managed to find room in our bellies for caprese and carne empanadas and grilled oysters topped with pork and some cool vegetable that looked like mini-asparagus. The food was high-class, but the beer was low-cost: 25 pesos (a little more than $2) for a bottle of Bohemia. Still, TJ splurged on a non-alcoholic Clamato cocktail with heaps of whole clams.
Fully sated, we carefully drove up the steep inclines to our house, stopping at one level spot to snap the scenic view back toward the States. And so concluded the first of likely many weekends spent cruising between two countries.