A Fat Purple Fig

It is raining. Not heavily, but enough to steadily soak us as we walk from the Tree House to Taquería Álvaro Obregón, to meet our Lucha Libre host, Javier. He has a flat tyre and is 10 minutes late, so we follow his instructions to ‘get inside the restaurant and tell them you are coming with Javi.‘ Google orders our beers, and Kitty delights in watching the waiters huddle, to discuss which to serve. They eventually decide on a Mexican Pilsener called Bohemia. It is a good choice. We smile and nod excessively to show our appreciation.

Javier, upon arrival, is immediately likeable. The waiters like him too, greeting him warmly when he enters. He orders a beer and translates the menu. I choose a classic al pastor taco – this one has pineapple, onion, and coriander, and I’m keen to taste one with all the trappings – and a stuffed taco-of-sorts, made by grilling gouda, wrapping it around a filling, and serving it with a tortilla…so it can be wrapped again! Kitty goes with a variety of stuffed-gouda and a gringa, naturally.

‘I like your vibe,‘ Javi says. The feeling is mutual. He has the relaxed, easygoing air of a guy who rides his bike everywhere, and who has travelled around South East Asia for six months (both of which are true). He soon pulls out what looks like a game board from his backpack, and assembles a miniature wrestling ring on the table beside us. He lines pint-size Mexican wrestlers up on either side, and says, ‘it’s easier if I give you a demonstration.’

The rules of Lucha Libre are what you might expect, even if you are not familiar with this style, or in fact any style, of wrestling. Consider what is universally-appropriate in a fight: compete one-on-one, don’t go for the groin, don’t hit someone when they’re down…that kind of thing. In a match where the outcome is predetermined, however, the fun doesn’t come from a rule-governed battle for supremacy, but from the drama that accompanies the breaking of those rules.

Lucha Libre matches are essentially a battle between good and evil, and the luchadores (wrestlers) are either técnicos (good guys), or rudos (bad guys). Their masks protect their identities, however, they can be ‘unmasked’ (or even have their heads shaved!) if they are defeated in a Mask vs Mask (or Hair vs Hair) battle. The removal of either is considered dreadfully humiliating.

Javi presents us both with a mask, puts his on (!), and we walk to Arena México, where we are body searched before entry. There are fabulous murals both across the road (note: the bad guy has removed the good guy’s mask!) and in the foyer. The mural insude, ‘A Dos de Tres Caídas Sin Límite de Tiempo‘, tells the history of Lucha Libre, and translates to ‘two out of three falls without time limit’.

The Arena is abuzz with anticipation. There are food hawkers shouting all over, selling popcorn, chips, hot dogs, tortas, and beer, which Kitty and I are soon sipping from enormous, plastic cups. The first match begins with much fanfare, complete with shimmying card girls who announce the various rounds. In the following clips, note the rudos ganging up on a hapless técnico while the referee is either distracted or nonplussed. Boooooooo!

Any concerns that one may confuse the good and bad guys are dispelled upon the entrance of this crew of baddies, complete with their own mascota, or little person. Seriously, could the names get any more evil than Luciferno and Virus? I think Cancerbero is equally bad, until I realise it translates to ‘Goalkeeper’. Javi buys us a fruit-and-beer drink, with a chamoy and sesame seed rim. I love it.

The women are next. They are all cartwheels, bums, and hair-pulling, and put on a startling display of athleticism. My favourite is the bad captain, Dark Siluta. When she enters, she takes her mask off, to show she doesn’t give a fuck about the rules (she’s been unmasked, but I like my reason better). She takes no prisoners.

The audience scream blue murder whenever the bad guys behave badly. ‘People come here to take out their frustrations with the world,’ Javi tells us. The técnicos represent the decent and trusting Everyman, whose extended hand of goodwill is inevitably met with a treacherous blow. The rudos are ‘The Man’, corrupt and amoral, who break all the rules (and have the referees on their payrolls). Best of all is when the whole arena chants ‘pendejo‘ (asshole) in unison.

In the one-on-one match, my favourite is once again, a rudo. He is unapologetically bad, breaking every rule in the book, then enacting this stance:

The luchadores of the main event are outstanding, and really do differentiate themselves from those in the lead-up matches. Occasionally, their moves are so elaborate so as to be borderline-humorous, with their cartwheeling and bouncing and spinning. The bad guys in this crew are the recently-unmasked Euforia, the middle-aged beast who will stop at nothing to win, and the brothers, Ángel de Oro and Niebla Roja, who were once good, but have since turned to the dark side.

Javi’s heckling is unmatched. I ask him for translations, which range from ‘you can have all my food stamps‘ (técnico) to ‘you look like a teletubby’ (rudo), although it isn’t his words that make it special, but his tone. Be aghast at the badness on show, and listen for yourselves:

You are likely pleased to know that the rudos do not always win. And surely even rudo-aficionados (there are a few of us) cannot help but be roused by the spirit of a beaten clutch of técnicos who manage to claw their way back from the brink of defeat. The final victory of the night belongs to Máscara Dorada (Javi’s favourite) and his team of good guys.

The best part about this clip is that Kitty has joined my cheering.

We wait at the end of the match, to try and catch a selfie with the newly-knighted champions. We can’t get close enough, but go one better with a photo of a triumphant técnico with his adoring fans.

If I lived here, I would go every week.