“Ya sabes las movidas,” my maternal grandfather Raymundo Velásquez would say. “You know the moves.”
Movidas means “moves.” But colloquially, like in this expression, a movida is a “play,” a course of action to get by, get around, get through or get over. A movida can be a shortcut through the city, the place where something is cheapest, or a way to outsmart the system.
The Chicano scholar Tomás Ybarra-Frausto defined movidas as “whatever coping strategies” Chicanos “use to gain time, make options or retain hope.” Ybarra-Frausto discussed movidas as part of rasquachismo, an underdog perspective that characterizes how Mexican Americans respond to our reality with inventiveness and resourcefulness.
Movidas speak to what I love about being Mexican from Chicago: we’re alchemists. We transmute limitations into possibilities and innovate under pressure. Like my maternal grandmother Maria Velásquez’s movida of taking empty, rusty Folgers cans and, rather than throw them out, turn them into flower planters.
When my paternal grandmother, Clementina Gamboa, longed for the rancho she left behind in Jalisco, her movida was to simply recreate it in her kitchen by putting cows everywhere: cow-print wallpaper and cow figurines everywhere, a cow cookie jar, cow plates, glasses, salt-and-pepper shakers…
There’s a spirit of insistence to find a way that underpins movidas as a cultural practice that reminds me of my paternal grandfather, José Gamboa. I recall him saying, “No me rajo.” “I don’t back down.” Once I overheard him tell a friend, “Jalisco no se raja.” In English: “Jalisco doesn’t give up.”
Emidio Oceguera’s family also hails from Jalisco. Emidio’s the owner of the recently opened speakeasy-style cocktail bar and restaurant Cerdito Muerto. But, to me, Cerdito Muerto’s more than that. It’s the sum of and monument to the kind of movidas that typify the Mexican American experience in Chicago.
Oceguera’s father Miguel Oceguera migrated from rural Jalisco to Chicago, where he rented a cot in the basement of a family friend’s building. After ten years of grinding, he bought that building off the family friend. He opened a pool hall there and later made room for Emidio’s mother Consuelo to open a taquería there, which became Tacos Palacio.
The best of us Mexican Americans don’t abandon our past; we insist on bringing it into the future. That was Emidio Oceguera’s movida. He received a city grant to help communities impacted by COVID and closed Tacos Palacio to renovate it into Cerdito Muerto.
Cerdito Muerto is not your taquería down the block. It’s slick, but without the pretension usually haunting trendy spots. What distinguishes Cerdito Muerto’s cool is the comfort and intimacy you feel just entering. The food and drinks are great and you’ll want to come back. But whatever the ef you do: Don’t leave without trying their Hamburguesa Aplastada (smash burger).
On our first date, I realized my husband has the tastebuds of a seven-year-old when I asked what his favorite foods were and he answered, “Pizza, cheeseburgers and french fries!” He orders a burger wherever we go. Since I’m curious, codependent and a hoodchick willing to support and share her man’s passions, I frequently get one too.
I’ve learned it’s hard to f*ck up a burger. But it’s nearly impossible to make one that stands out. But that’s what Cerdito Muerto has done.
You know how Mexicans do movidas to make American things their own, like paint a brick bungalow bright pink or call K-Mart “K-Marque”? Cerdito Muerto does the culinary version of that with their burger.
They innovate and elevate the burger patty by mixing chorizo with dry aged prime beef. The paprika and chiles that flavor the chorizo lend a nice picante. The result is a burger that bites back with flavor when you sink your teeth into it. The rush of saliva triggered from horny glands is blanketed by Chihuahua cheese that’s smoother and more velvety than a San Marcos cobija. The curtido gives a sour, acidic kiss for a clever finish.
As an Aquarius, I’m naturally a hater, not a hypeman. But I swear it’s the best burger I’ve had. I’m ordering it every time I go there until the day I die. I will, trust me: “No me rajo. Jalisco no se raja.” Treat yourself to Cerdito Muerto, order the burger, support a spot with history and heart. That’s the movida.