It was in the mid 1990's sometime, and I had gone to the supermarket on Thankgsgiving morning to get some last minute ingredients for the feast. I pulled up next to a little white car whose hood was held on by bungee cords.
Three slight, bronze complected men got out of the car and entered the supermarket ahead of me. As I followed them into the grocery store, I overheard two of them questioning the third. "So, what is this American holiday about anyway?" they were asking their Fearless Leader (in Spanish).
Fearless Leader explained that it was "a big feast for giving thanks to God."
"For what?"
"Ah, for all the food, I think."
"So, we are in America now! We should feast as Americans today! What do Americans eat for Thanksgiving?"
"They eat a turkey," Fearless Leader replied.
The two followers looked at Fearless Leader with evident annoyance. "How are WE going to cook a turkey?" one asked.
The other saw the answer, and pointed to the deli section, where rotisserie chickens rotated enticingly, fully browned. Clearly this was close enough to a turkey for their purpose. All three men grinned and went to get themselves one.
I wasn't trying to eavesdrop on the rest of their conversation, honestly: it's just that the rest of my trip kept me behind these men.
"So what else do Americans eat, with the 'turkey'?" asked one of the Junior Associates, once they had the chicken in hand.
"Potatoes, yams..." said Fearless Leader, pointing to the raw tubers in the produce department.
"We can't cook those, either," one of the junors objected.
Again, the other smiled. He pointed to a stack of potato chips. "Look, these are potatoes, right?"
"OK!" Cheerful again, they picked up a big bag of chips.
"All right, now, what do Americans drink with this feast?" one of the men asked Fearless Leader.
Fearless Leader seemed to be on shakier ground here. "Eh... cerveza?" he said uncertainly.
The two Junior Associates folded their arms and glared at him. Clearly this was an ignorant statement, possibly even sacrilegious. "Come on, we drink beer EVERY DAY! This is an American holiday! We must drink a special drink, an American drink!"
"Hmmm... what is American to drink?"
Yet again the marketing in the store came to their aid. Their eyes turned simultaneously to a nearby pyramid of Coke. "Co-ca Cola! Co-ca Cola!" the men chorused. They picked up a six pack, and moved to the checkout ahead of me.
All smiles, they went off in their dubious car to enjoy their very "American" feast of rotisserie chicken, potato chips, and Coke.
Every Thanksgiving since I have thought of these young men. They were far from home, bereft of their womenfolk and many of the niceties of civilization, lacking abilities and/or facilities to cook, but they nonetheless rejoiced in being as "American" as they could manage.
It's almost enough to make me want to serve Coca-Cola at my own Thanksgiving feast.