“¡NÚMERO VEINTIOCHO! TWENTY-EIGHT! ¡NÚMERO VEINTINUEVE! TWENTY-NINE!” The sound of numbers being called from the meat counter drowns out every other auditory stimulus: the rattling of carts, the blaring of banda music by paisas in pickup trucks outside, the Pandora-esque mix of Mexican regional classics blared by the in-store speakers, the incessant chitter-chatter of people buying groceries. Always get your number at the counter first, then walk past the huge bakery display, the cheap produce, the tempting aguas frescas (or hot atole in winter), the taquería, the tortillería . . . and then, when you finally accept the red bag of diesmillo or palomilla from the butcher, marvel at how low the price is—and realize why it's always so crowded.
