Fried Green Tamales

They said it tastes “just like chicken.” It was one of Hannibal Lecter’s favorites and a staple in Jeffrey Dahmer’s diet. And then there was Alferd Packer, who even had a grill named after him at the University of Colorado.

Cannibalism is nothing new, but it always makes the news.

In a small rented apartment on Mosqueta No. 198 in Colonia Guerreo in the D.F., aspiring horror filmwriter José Luis Zepeda Kawa had a few friends for lunch. Even though his neighbors described him as an attractive friendly sort of guy, in the way neighbors often relate to the ones least suspected of heinous deeds, Zepeda’s friends never went home. He ate them.

This story, even though set off in the far-off Gotham of Mexico City, filled an entire page of La Voz de Michoacán, but did it really merit a link in the Drudge Report? It’s just such old news to those of us living in Morelia, where back in 2004, a tamalero killed Herbierto the apron-seller and cooked him up into tamales for sale just outside of the Hospital Civil, only to have his act followed up by a deranged young man in Indaparapeo who cooked up and ate his very own father.

Last night I read Nando Parrado‘s Miracle in the Andes. It didn’t taste like chicken to him.

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