You hear it from a block away: an amplified, singsong call with an uncanny power to slice through the urban din. The tone is cheap and tinny -- as kitschy as a sound can be. And it's my favorite in Mexico City. Listen now, as it nears, the nasal-toned male voice stretching out syllables and pauses, again and again, into a verse so familiar it could be the unofficial anthem of this vast city, a kind of culinary call to prayer. "Ri-costa-ma-les oaxa-que-ños!" blares a loudspeaker on the vendor's tamale cart. "Tamales oaxaqueños!" "Tamales calien-ti-tos!"
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