He was craving sushi that date night. His wife said she kind of felt like Mexican.
“I kind of feel like I want a margarita.”
“The sushi place has margaritas.”
“They’re too sweet.”
“Aren’t you going to a Mexican spot tomorrow night with your friends?”
“Yeah but I’ll order something different.”
He recognized the waitress at the Mexican restaurant, which was also a steakhouse for some reason. She used to work at another restaurant they frequented until it went out of business.
The waitress didn’t make it obvious that she recognized him so he didn’t bring it up. He had sworn off liquor for the month after having imbibed too much, too often the previous month, so he ordered an IPA, which she had to leave and check if they had, and they didn’t, so he settled for a Mexican beer. His wife ordered her margarita, which the white bartender at the Mexican restaurant made sure was not too sweet, unlike the Chinese bartender at the Japanese restaurant, apparently.
He looked around at the photos on the walls, which were candid photos of what seemed like real life Mexicans, in Mexico, from decades before. There was nothing special about the photos. They looked like they had been taken with disposable cameras. The colors were flat, either due to the cheap cameras or the prints being old and sun faded. There was a certain charm in their non-professionalism, and the fact that they looked like very ordinary Mexicans just having a good time doing mundane things. But it was a bit strange… How did this restaurant get the photos? Who took them? Did the people know they would be on the walls of this American Mexican restaurant that was also a steakhouse decades later? There was one such photo above the urinal in the men’s room. Did that man have any idea that thousands of men would be looking at his smiling face while they held their penises?
The table next to them was a mix of parents, grandparents, and a few kids. The cute little girl was an exact replica of her mom, with dark hair, fair skin, a pleasant profile, and a fit body. But he sensed some inner tension in her, like she worried about little things far too much. He wondered at what age the little girl would start to do the same. He hoped that she had a few years yet.
He usually ordered the prime rib at this restaurant, but decided to mix it up. The Super Burrito. Spicy sirloin steak with all kinds of shit on it. His wife ordered the fajita.
“That limits what you can get tomorrow night, huh?”
“I’ll probably get a burger tomorrow.”
The restaurant she was going to the next day was Mexican but also served American food, for some reason.
“Can’t go wrong with a burger.”
When the salsa cup was empty and the chip basket half empty, their food arrived. As always, upon seeing his wife’s sizzling fajita platter, he regretted not having ordered it himself. But even though his burrito wasn’t sizzling, it looked really good, with all the shit on it. They both dug in.
A few minutes later, his wife asked, “How is it?”
“Surprisingly bland. Look at all these colors” he said as he pointed his fork at the onions, peppers, lettuce, cheese, and all the rest of the shit. “You’d think the taste would at least rival the vibrance. But it doesn’t even come close. I should have gotten the prime rib. How’s yours?”
“Good. Can’t go wrong with a fajita.”
“I didn’t know I could go wrong with a burrito, but here I am.”
“There you are.”
“It’s not bad. Maybe if it weren’t so colorful it would seem tastier. Lower expectations, you know. I don’t know. It’s fine.”
She leaned over and sipped from the straw sticking out of her margarita as she scanned all the shit on his burrito.
“It is really colorful,” she said in between sips.
The waitress came by and asked how they liked the meal. They both said “really good” at the same time.
The staff was setting up a large table nearby for a birthday party. Balloons and other shit. A few minutes later the people arrived and stood around awkwardly until the waitress told them they could sit down.
“I know you’re waiting on some more people but does anyone want something to drink?”
One of the women immediately said, “Yes PLEASE!” too loudly, and the others laughed harder than they should have. Only the waitress’s mouth smiled as she took out her pad.
The man, half done with his burrito and not too enthusiastic about finishing it, reflected on the birthday party people’s enthusiasm about alcohol, glanced down at his yellow Mexican beer with the browned lime, and thought, “I really need to quit this shit.”
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