My wife and I visited our favorite Mexican restaurant a while back for lunch. We live in Texas, so Tex-Mex is one of our food groups that must be consumed at least once a month in order to maintain our cosmic balance and to keep our gut bacteria in check.
The wait staff, or the chip guy, plopped a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa on our table. No hello, how are you, and no water to wash down the salty chip dipped in a tomato and jalapeno fortified liquid fire? How does one eat hot and spicy foods without water? Why do they not think of that? Gringos are sissy-asses when it comes to hot salsa.
Our waitress, a pleasant young Hispanic girl arrives to take our order. The music in the room is loud and I have a hard time hearing her explanation of the “special of the day.”
Not wanting to appear deaf, which I almost am, I ask her to please turn down the music so I might understand her. She stares at me like I have a third eye on my forehead, something my wife does often. She says, “we need the music for the ambiance of the dining experience, and besides our staff likes it.” Okay, that’s fine, but it’s too loud.
This is one of the questions that make you wonder why, so I ask her, “young lady, do you know we are in Granbury, Texas, and not in Cancun, Mexico? Everyone in here is middle age or older, and they are all gringos that don’t speak Spanish, so they can’t understand a word of the songs being played.” She looks puzzled and rubs her chin a few times, then replies, “Sir, if we don’t play the Spanish music, then the food will not taste as good, and we want you to imagine you are in Old Mexico dining on a vine-covered patio and watching the waves roll onto the white sandy beach.”
Okay, this is getting good. I say,” I am looking through a window at a parking lot full of big-assed pick-up trucks and a highway full of speeding pick-up trucks pulling construction trailers, and nothing you can play or say will make me imagine I am in Old Mexico eating a resort lunch. We are in Texas, and I am going home, which is about four miles from here, to take a nap after this, not to my hotel room overlooking the beach.” I think she got the message.
Somewhere around my tenth chip and a few sips of beer, the music stops, then starts again. Eric Clapton playing “Sunshine Of Your Love” fills the room. The other diners smile, and there are more than a few tapping feet. Makes you wonder?