What Mexico Has Taught Me: Pure Horror!!!
BY THE UNKNOWN GRINGO
I’m on a short leash. I’m helping a friend who is in terrible shape as he navigates what is left of his life. I’ve done this before, first with my mother and then my father. So now I often can’t go to Ensenada for even two or three nights, let alone fly anywhere, but only enjoy five to six hours at the border in Tecate on a Saturday then rush home. But, it feels like a miracle when I can do this — to get away and cram as much Mexico as possible into my spirit. I leave Los Angeles early and start each visit with the excellent shrimp tacos at Tacos Casimiro by 7:15 – 7:20 in the morning. I am usually their first customer. I show up on a bicycle. Wearing shorts. So… they know me. Plus I don’t think there is any other place in that small town that serves food that early, let alone seafood. I need Casimiro. NEED.
So I parked my vehicle in the States the other day and rode my bicycle across the border. Shrimp tacos, here I come. I turned the corner in the quiet residential neighborhood where the place is at and they are CLOSED. This kind of thing has happened to me many times in Mexico. A beloved place GONE. Shock. Horror. This place was important to me. This is going to do damage.
Stunned, I start thinking. Maybe an employee died and they’re at the funeral. Maybe a water pipe burst. Maybe there’s a wedding. Sure, and maybe I’m the Village Idiot. But, but, “closed” doesn’t HAVE to mean “gone”, right? And the empty Coke bottles are still stacked in the parking lot. Oh, God, not again. I’m sure I must have sagged visibly. And, of course, there was no one around for me to ask with my bad Spanish.
Two weeks later I am back and I am prepared. Prepared to enter a period of grief or to maybe see my buddies again. (By the way, Plan B Shrimp Tacos Place doesn’t open until 9:00) I peddled my bike slowly because riding faster was going to deliver bad news sooner. I crept my way down their street with dread …….. and saw their blue gate was OPEN. I had to be sure. I pedaled faster. Their door was OPEN. I gave out a shout. I pulled in, jumped off the bike, pulled a piece of paper out of my wallet, and spoke the words I’d written on it, interrupting the eleven employees in their open kitchen area as they chopped, cleaned, stacked, fried, mixed, de-veined, stirred, and sliced — “Dos semanas pasada. Julio vientiseis. Sabado. Mi, aqui. Casimiro cerrado. Mi, sustado!” I believe I said “Two weeks ago. July 26. Saturday. Me, here. Casimiro closed. Me, scared!” I only got ONE WORD out of the whole crew. “Vacacion”.
I went straight into my fake crying routine which always works and said “No persona muerto? Casimiro no muerto? Mi, asustado!” More chuckles. Then they gave me 3 fried serranos chiles instead of my usual 2 with those magnificent shrimp tacos. But, like I said before, I’ve lost some wonderful places in Mexico. The statistics in the States are that half of all restaurants close within five years. And I was told recently by an employee in Ensenada that their place will probably be going out of business soon. A place so special to me that I go to it almost every single day I am down there. The life lesson? I bet we all know it.
