I am just waiting.
I know it is coming, and I know there is nothing I can do about it. I guess I could attempt to check myself into the hospital as a preemptive measure, but I’m not sure they would admit me for impending food poisoning. Besides, I’m a dead man anyway.
I ate lunch today with some work buddies, Duane, Chad, and Cory. Duane suggested we eat at “A little mom-and-pop mexican place, you’ll love it.”
I have eaten in tin shacks with dirt floors while chickens ran around my ankles, I have eaten in a truck stop in Mexico with so many flies I could barely see my friend across the table. I have never been in a place like La Tormenta.
I don’t think I can really explain what it looked like, but I will try (while I still have the strength to type). The exterior looked like an abandoned garage. The interior was worse. The floor was covered in dirty plush carpet. The ceiling was covered in wood paneling with bare fluorescent tubes, about half of which were working (I wish more of them were out so I couldn’t have seen the walls or the tables).
The walls were covered in depressing paintings of tropical “paradises” framed by split bamboo. The place had apparently been a polynesian restaurant at some point. There were stains all over the walls. The dining area was filled with second-hand dining tables from the ’70s, none of them matching, and none of which had been wiped down in weeks.
The chairs were a mixture of plastic patio furniture and upholstered Salvation Army rejects on casters. A large can of Raid sat on the filthy carpet by my chair.
Besides ancient crumbs, the table had a crusty bottle of Tapatío hot sauce with no cap, and a glass dish filled with what looked to be fossilized oregano.
This was what Chad would call “eating on a dare.” I’m still not sure why we didn’t run from the place screaming.
The waitress said “hola”, every tooth framed in silver, and asked, “Quien habla Español?” I did. She rattled off a short list of dishes that I can only imagine were the leftovers in her fridge. There were no printed menus. Duane asked me to tell her that he wanted two tacos with rice and beans. I did, barely resisting the urge to say, “Él quiere dos tacos de ojo, y para beber, urina de vaca”.
The rest of us never got a chance to order. She just walked away. We sat there laughing at how insane it was to eat in a place like this. Plan a murder? Yes. Drink a bottle of tequila in the corner while watching a dog fight? Yes. Eat? No!
There was plenty of gallows humor as we waited for our food. I’m not sure how she decided we all wanted two tacos with rice and beans, but there it was. We ate nervously, but I have to concede to Duane that the food was actually very good.
Cory, who also speaks spanish, had to go find the waitress so we could pay. Cash only of course. Apparently there were no set prices. “Let’s see, you guys had tacos… What should I charge you? How about $8?” $8 total, for four lunches. I don’t think I have ever had a $2 lunch before.
We all got up and walked out, still laughing a bit nervously, but much more optimistic about our chances of survival. That was until Chad called our attention to the soiled mattress near the entrance. How did we miss that walking in!?
Banshees, the ace of spades…never has there been a more clear sign of death than that soiled mattress in La Tormenta.
I don’t expect any of us to make it through the night.