Viva L'Azucar Revolucion!

If I sat on the fence regarding immigration (and I don't sit on fences) then there's one thing that would surely knock my ass off. In all likelyhood, without immigrants from Mexico, legal or otherwise, we would be unable to get our hands on that sweet delight that is Mexican Coca Cola.

I don't suck down soda. I never really have. But I do like the occasional indulgence. The delightful fizz, the sweet-acid burn on my tongue, the heavenly caramel aroma; they all combine to quench and satisfy my old-brain impulses.

There are conspiracy theorists who believe that when Coke changed their formula in the mid-eighties to New Coke it was with the full intention of changing back to Classic Coke. The only difference being that the Classic Coke wouldn't actually be Classical; the formula would use cheaper (due to federal subsidies for corn) high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) instead of the traditional cane sugar. Regardless of whether it was planned or not, that is exactly what took place. We got a soft drink that pumped us full of more corn, as if our diets aren't corny enough.

Mexico wasn't going for that. Corn is a staple food there. Prices for corn relative to cane sugar have never been out of whack. Mexicans still saw a soft drink as a treat rather than a standard meal accompaniment. For all their other problems, at least they didn't Big Gulp themselves into a quivering Morgan Spurlock hell. So they kept the sugar in the Coke. And better yet, they kept the Coke in a bottle. Bring on the colacorridos!

It tastes different. It isn't the cloying corn sweetness that squats on the tongue and, like the last drunk at your party, never leaves. No, unlike corn syrup, the sugar gets leavened by the acid and carbonation, leaving your mouth refresco. Skeptics can argue all they want that the difference is undetectable, but I know. My mother, visiting over the holidays, laughed until she got her first azucar hit. "Wow! That is better," she proclaimed. Eventually I had to horde my stash, regretting ever giving her a taste.

I get my fix courtesy of Costco. They smuggle the stuff up from the Tijuana bottler. All I need is the secret password (where's the Mexican Coke?) and I'm walking out the door with a case. Immigrants and uppity gringos like me are crazy for the brew. U.S. bottlers meanwhile, are bent out of shape, claiming that the imports, which are booming, are cutting into their shabbier version's sales. It doesn't help them that corn prices are skyrocketing due to pointless ethanol. I say screw 'em! They cheaped out and now they're cut out. It's New Jack City, gatos. They started the fire and I say burn, baby, burn.