Round a portly, florid French chef in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on rue de Longchamp clustered 60 homesick Mexicans. The peppery air crackled and popped with counsel on the making of tortillas and chile relleno on current Paris rations.
Of chopped beef, there was enough; of vegetables, a slight deficiency. Soon the pungent odors brought grins of delight to 60 swarthy faces.
After dinner and the twanging of guitars the group trooped across the street to the imposing Mexican Legation, gleaming in white cement. Upstairs, on 60 cots neatly placed in the plushy conference rooms, they drew off their boots, slept and waited for...
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