You have a beloved Mexican restaurant just like Casa Azteca in your home town. And maybe you have important memories tied to your hometown Mexican restaurant the way I do with Casa Azteca.
The day Robert died, a small group of his close friends met at Casa Azteca for lunch. We asked to sit in the dark windowless dining room, normally closed during lunch, but the hostess seemed to understand we didn't want to be around other customers. When six young men with dour looks on their faces walk into a Mexican restaurant in total silence, kicking imaginary rocks across the dining room floor, something is clearly wrong. She sat us at the long wooden dining table that seats a dozen people on busy nights. The six of us spread out across the length of the table, choosing whatever seat gave us each some modicum of comfort. An old CRT television hung on the wall, framed between murals of Aztec figures in vaguely heroic poses. One picture depicted a woman genuflecting before a muscular half-naked king, grateful for the chance to die for the greater good. Human sacrifice, the Aztecs believed, powered the universe. Without it, the sun wouldn't rise in the morning. It's fun to find meaning in death; otherwise, I have no fucking clue why people die.
"Paul Newman just died," I said as I pointed at the TV. Everyone set down their beers and watched the montage of film clips from Newman's long career.
"Celebrities always die in threes," someone said.
"So who's the third," another said.
The Wikipedia page for Milpitas, California lists no "Famous Residents." Robert was the closest to celebrity Milpitas ever produced. That sentence sounds ignorant. Of course, every pack of unruly teenagers who grew up in the middle of nowhere thinks they owned their little town, but, truly, Robert was special. To that point, hundreds attended his memorial and burial service at Cedar Lawn Cemetery in nearby Fremont. The eponymous Cedar Lawn was matted down and littered with cigarette butts when the throng of friends and family left. I've never gone back to Cedar Lawn and I don't plan to--ever.
I'm more interested in going back to the places where Robert lived. Casa Azteca was one of those places. For reasons I can't possibly fathom, Robert hated Mexican food, but he graciously tagged along whenever his friends wanted to go to Casa Azteca. Robert ordered from the section of the menu titled "Gringo Goodies." Lucky gringos can choose between a New York Strip steak or a hamburger. To Casa Azteca's credit, Robert swore the New York strip there was better than any other steak in Milpitas. I tried the hamburger once on a lark and I actually liked it quite a bit.
Some Yelpers may argue the food at Casa Azteca somehow lacks authenticity. I can imagine them arguing, "Everything on the menu is a 'Gringo Goody.'" If Casa Azteca changed the name of their restaurant to "Gringo Goodies," I'm sure customers would line up out the door and the restaurant wouldn't have to change any of the recipes. In fact, I'd be first in line. Someone please open a Mexican restaurant called Gringo Goodies.
Inside Casa Azteca looks exactly the same today as it did when Robert died ten years ago. The only difference is the CRT television is now an LCD. I eat alone. All my friends from Milpitas have long since moved. I only come back to visit my parents and they don't like eating at Casa Azteca. Their decision has nothing to do with the food.
"Philip, Casa Azteca is great. We're just sick of you taking us there."
"But it makes me happy," which, as it happens, is the answer to everything.
So I come to Casa Azteca by myself, walk straight to the bar and wave the menu away. I've been eating at Casa Azteca for 20 years and I know I want chicken enchiladas rancheras, salad with house dressing and a michelada.
The salad comes to the table fresh and cold. If not for the croutons and the single slice of beet, it'd be a plate of chopped lettuce. But the house dressing makes the magic happen. I don't know if they make the dressing in-house or if it comes out of a giant plastic bucket, but I love it either way.
The enchiladas arrive with a generous ladle of ranchera sauce. The sauce is not chili based, rather it is full of onion, tomato and wonder. When the enchiladas are gone I tip the plate into my mouth and drink the red sauce and it drips from my beard like the blood of the warriors I have slain. Diners in adjacent tables look at me. I shrug my shoulders as if to ask, "What's the fucking problem?"
As for the michelada--it is exactly what you want. The mix does not come out of a can labelled "Bloody Mary Mix." They make it on the spot for you when you order it. I lift the goblet to my face with two reverent hands and imagine I am drinking the blood of human sacrifice and the sun continues to rise every morning and the blue sky holds back the infinite black cold of space.
Best regards from your friend in fun,
Philip C. read more