In keeping with my restaurant stories and family adventures, I'm going to introduce you to my brother Jon. Jon is the middle of three brothers and always the wiseacre. He made my life miserable as a teen, but turned out OK as an adult.
Sunset in Cabo
My older sister Quita died in a boating accident when I was eleven years old. My brothers, Jon and Jim, were six and five years old. That left me the oldest child.
As the oldest child, I always had to blaze the trail. When I wanted to do something I usually had to battle stiff resistance from my parents, by the time Jon and Jim were old enough to do what I had wanted, the precedent had been set and my parents’ resistance worn down. Jon and Jim didn’t even have to put up a fight.
I wanted a motorcycle the year I graduated from high school. (Spiderman's alter ego, Peter Parker, had just bought a motorcycle, so I had to have one.) Mama thought it was a terrible idea and we fought a long hard battle before I finally was allowed to buy a bike. The following summer I wanted to take my bike on a road trip. It was (and still is) my dream to visit each city with a major league baseball team and see a game in each ballpark. Mama was adamant. I would not go. I was too young and the trip was too dangerous.
In the summer between his junior and senior years in high school, Jon got to take my trip. Well, it wasn’t exactly my trip, but he did take a road trip with his friends without parental supervision. At dinner one Sunday evening he announced “I'm taking a trip to Mexico this summer with two of my friends.” Neither Mama nor Papa put up a struggle. I guess where I went wrong was that I asked if I could. Jon just told my parents that he was going.
He and his friends took Mama’s Chevy II Nova station wagon and drove down the coast. They crossed the border at San Diego and went down Baja until they ran out of money and returned home on fumes.
As the oldest child, I always had to blaze the trail. When I wanted to do something I usually had to battle stiff resistance from my parents, by the time Jon and Jim were old enough to do what I had wanted, the precedent had been set and my parents’ resistance worn down. Jon and Jim didn’t even have to put up a fight.
I wanted a motorcycle the year I graduated from high school. (Spiderman's alter ego, Peter Parker, had just bought a motorcycle, so I had to have one.) Mama thought it was a terrible idea and we fought a long hard battle before I finally was allowed to buy a bike. The following summer I wanted to take my bike on a road trip. It was (and still is) my dream to visit each city with a major league baseball team and see a game in each ballpark. Mama was adamant. I would not go. I was too young and the trip was too dangerous.
In the summer between his junior and senior years in high school, Jon got to take my trip. Well, it wasn’t exactly my trip, but he did take a road trip with his friends without parental supervision. At dinner one Sunday evening he announced “I'm taking a trip to Mexico this summer with two of my friends.” Neither Mama nor Papa put up a struggle. I guess where I went wrong was that I asked if I could. Jon just told my parents that he was going.
He and his friends took Mama’s Chevy II Nova station wagon and drove down the coast. They crossed the border at San Diego and went down Baja until they ran out of money and returned home on fumes.
Typical Baja Landscape
The following summer, we opened the La Posada Mexican Restaurant. Papa and I took on the job of remodeling a free-standing restaurant building to make it look like a Mexican inn. To complete the job, we needed to make a trip to Southern California and Tijuana to buy decorations and equipment that wasn’t available in Eugene. While Jim and Papa remained in Eugene, working on the restaurant, Jon went on the trip with Mama and me to California.
My uncle Juan had lived in Tijuana for two years when he was waiting to cross the border into the U.S. He knew his way around town. He was excited about our visit and anxious to show us his Tijuana. He knew how to bargain with merchants and what was a good deal. With his help, we loaded down the Nova wagon with all sorts of lamps, decorations and equipment. It was a long, hard day of shopping. As the afternoon wore on, Juan wanted to take us to his favorite restaurant.
We wound through narrow, twisting streets to an unassuming white building along a high sidewalked street. It was typical Mexican architecture with whitewashed stucco outer walls, tile roof and lots of wrought iron. The restaurant was build around a central open-air courtyard. In the center of the courtyard was a fountain, bougainvilleas and other tropical plants helped to lend an air of cool ease. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from the ceilings and murals were painted on walls depicting Aztec legends. In the courtyard wooden tables and chairs with white table cloths awaited us.
The staff was very gracious. They knew Juan and treated him like a king. During his years waiting to get a visa to enter America, he had washed dishes in this restaurant. Now, twenty years later, he was a well to do American contractor. He had made it out.
The menus were all in Spanish; this was a Mexican restaurant for Mexicans. That presented no problem for us, because we all spoke Spanish to some degree or other. This restaurant specialized in meat dishes, not the traditional enchiladas and tamales that you see along the border in most restaurants. I ordered chile verde, Mama ordered carne asada, Juan and my aunt Mellie ordered bistec ranchero, Jon ordered chiles relleno.
After the orders were taken and the waiters left us alone, Jon began to tell us the story of his trip to Mexico the previous summer.
“We’d been driving for hours,” he began. “There were no signs on the road and it just kept going on forever. We were lost and needed directions so we stopped at a little roadside restaurant for help.
“When we went into the restaurant, it was deserted. There were a few miserable miss-matched tables and chairs under a palapa roof over a dirt floor in front. In the run-down little building was the kitchen.” Jon was the only one in his group that spoke Spanish so it was up to him to ask for directions.
My uncle Juan had lived in Tijuana for two years when he was waiting to cross the border into the U.S. He knew his way around town. He was excited about our visit and anxious to show us his Tijuana. He knew how to bargain with merchants and what was a good deal. With his help, we loaded down the Nova wagon with all sorts of lamps, decorations and equipment. It was a long, hard day of shopping. As the afternoon wore on, Juan wanted to take us to his favorite restaurant.
We wound through narrow, twisting streets to an unassuming white building along a high sidewalked street. It was typical Mexican architecture with whitewashed stucco outer walls, tile roof and lots of wrought iron. The restaurant was build around a central open-air courtyard. In the center of the courtyard was a fountain, bougainvilleas and other tropical plants helped to lend an air of cool ease. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from the ceilings and murals were painted on walls depicting Aztec legends. In the courtyard wooden tables and chairs with white table cloths awaited us.
The staff was very gracious. They knew Juan and treated him like a king. During his years waiting to get a visa to enter America, he had washed dishes in this restaurant. Now, twenty years later, he was a well to do American contractor. He had made it out.
The menus were all in Spanish; this was a Mexican restaurant for Mexicans. That presented no problem for us, because we all spoke Spanish to some degree or other. This restaurant specialized in meat dishes, not the traditional enchiladas and tamales that you see along the border in most restaurants. I ordered chile verde, Mama ordered carne asada, Juan and my aunt Mellie ordered bistec ranchero, Jon ordered chiles relleno.
After the orders were taken and the waiters left us alone, Jon began to tell us the story of his trip to Mexico the previous summer.
“We’d been driving for hours,” he began. “There were no signs on the road and it just kept going on forever. We were lost and needed directions so we stopped at a little roadside restaurant for help.
“When we went into the restaurant, it was deserted. There were a few miserable miss-matched tables and chairs under a palapa roof over a dirt floor in front. In the run-down little building was the kitchen.” Jon was the only one in his group that spoke Spanish so it was up to him to ask for directions.
Carne Asada Tacos
“We heard voices out back so I went through the kitchen to find someone. As I walked though the kitchen, there were some open garbage cans with flies buzzing around them. I don’t know why, but I looked in the garbage cans and there were dog’s heads in them.”
Everyone lost their appetite. Mama and Mellie made choking sounds and reached for their bottles of pop. Then the waiters brought the food to the table.
The meal lived up to Juan’s promise. The plates were artfully prepared and a feast for the eyes. Jon enjoyed every bite of his chiles relleno, which did not have any meat. No one else, except me, could eat their lunches. I didn’t care if the chile verde was made with dog or monkey, it looked good and smelled wonderful, so I dug in.
Everyone lost their appetite. Mama and Mellie made choking sounds and reached for their bottles of pop. Then the waiters brought the food to the table.
The meal lived up to Juan’s promise. The plates were artfully prepared and a feast for the eyes. Jon enjoyed every bite of his chiles relleno, which did not have any meat. No one else, except me, could eat their lunches. I didn’t care if the chile verde was made with dog or monkey, it looked good and smelled wonderful, so I dug in.
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