another by bamboo screens. On one wall were garish movie posters advertising Mexican movies of the 1940s and ’50s with Cantinflas or Dolores Del Rio; on another, a velvet painting of a pneumatically muscled Aztec warrior lifting a maiden with breasts like projectiles. The floor was covered with sawdust. Dusty paper flowers and strings of small earthen jars stretching across the ceiling completed the décor.
A smiling teenage girl greeted John as if she recognized him and led us to a booth. On the table between us was a candle, a jar of pickled vegetables, a Dos Equis beer bottle holding a paper rose, and a metate in the shape of a pig carved from volcanic rock filled with chile so hot I could smell it.
“My grandmother had a metate exactly like this one.”
“Every ’buelita had that metate,” John said.
The girl left for a moment, then returned with water, a basket of tortilla chips, a bowl of fresh salsa, flatware and menus. She laid them before us with shy efficiency and eye-averted modesty.
“That girl seemed to recognize you,” I said.
“I know the family that owns the place. The Huertas,” he said. “I did some work for them. The girl is a niece or something. They brought her up from Mexico.” He unfolded the menu. “Everything’s good here, but especially the fish. You like fish?”
I nodded, looked around the garish room and asked, “So what part of the décor are you responsible for?”
He grinned. “The kitchen.”
The restaurant was almost empty when we arrived, but the booths soon began to fill. The clientele seemed about equally divided between mexicanos in straw hats playing Javier Solis on the jukebox and would-be Anglo bohemians from nearby Silverlake, complaining to the waiters about the loudness of the music and anxious over whether the refried beans were vegetarian or not.
The young waitress brought our drinks and took our orders. After she left, I asked him, “What happened with baseball?”
“I tore a ligament in my pitching arm,” he said. “Nowadays, they just take a tendon from somewhere else in your body and transplant it, but not back then, not for a minor leaguer.”
“You must have had some talent to get called up, even if only for a couple of games.”
“I was a lefty, and there’s never enough of those to go around, so I got more attention than maybe I deserved.” He dunked a chip into the hot salsa and munched it. “Hijole, that’s hot. Don’t get me wrong, Henry, I had decent stuff when I could control it.” He tried another chip. “They may have been able to make something out of me, but when I ripped up my arm, that was it was adiós, Johnny.”
“Just like that?”
He gulped some water. “I was pretty immature. I don’t think they were that sorry to see me go.”
“You must have been barely out of your teens,” I said. “Immaturity goes with the territory.”
“I was a big blowhard, Henry. I was sure I was going to be the next big Latin star. Roberto Clemente, Juan Marichal, and me. The only problem was I didn’t have their talent and I didn’t like to work all that hard, either. That’s a bad combination. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”
“How long was that?”
“Five years,” he replied. “I was recruited right out of high school. Man, my dad wasn’t happy about that.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me to go to college like my brothers and sisters,” he said. “I got three of each, and they’re all white-collar but me and my sister Josefa. She dropped out of college to get married. After baseball got done with me, I never made it back to school.”
“You went to work for your dad?”
Our food arrived on enormous, thick white platters. John had a whole fish while I had ordered the snapper Vera Cruz. There were piles of rice and beans on the side and a big bowl of salad to split, with a fragrant stack of corn tortillas. The food made me think of my mother, who was a wonderful cook. She frequently cooked dishes that
A smiling teenage girl greeted John as if she recognized him and led us to a booth. On the table between us was a candle, a jar of pickled vegetables, a Dos Equis beer bottle holding a paper rose, and a metate in the shape of a pig carved from volcanic rock filled with chile so hot I could smell it.
“My grandmother had a metate exactly like this one.”
“Every ’buelita had that metate,” John said.
The girl left for a moment, then returned with water, a basket of tortilla chips, a bowl of fresh salsa, flatware and menus. She laid them before us with shy efficiency and eye-averted modesty.
“That girl seemed to recognize you,” I said.
“I know the family that owns the place. The Huertas,” he said. “I did some work for them. The girl is a niece or something. They brought her up from Mexico.” He unfolded the menu. “Everything’s good here, but especially the fish. You like fish?”
I nodded, looked around the garish room and asked, “So what part of the décor are you responsible for?”
He grinned. “The kitchen.”
The restaurant was almost empty when we arrived, but the booths soon began to fill. The clientele seemed about equally divided between mexicanos in straw hats playing Javier Solis on the jukebox and would-be Anglo bohemians from nearby Silverlake, complaining to the waiters about the loudness of the music and anxious over whether the refried beans were vegetarian or not.
The young waitress brought our drinks and took our orders. After she left, I asked him, “What happened with baseball?”
“I tore a ligament in my pitching arm,” he said. “Nowadays, they just take a tendon from somewhere else in your body and transplant it, but not back then, not for a minor leaguer.”
“You must have had some talent to get called up, even if only for a couple of games.”
“I was a lefty, and there’s never enough of those to go around, so I got more attention than maybe I deserved.” He dunked a chip into the hot salsa and munched it. “Hijole, that’s hot. Don’t get me wrong, Henry, I had decent stuff when I could control it.” He tried another chip. “They may have been able to make something out of me, but when I ripped up my arm, that was it was adiós, Johnny.”
“Just like that?”
He gulped some water. “I was pretty immature. I don’t think they were that sorry to see me go.”
“You must have been barely out of your teens,” I said. “Immaturity goes with the territory.”
“I was a big blowhard, Henry. I was sure I was going to be the next big Latin star. Roberto Clemente, Juan Marichal, and me. The only problem was I didn’t have their talent and I didn’t like to work all that hard, either. That’s a bad combination. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”
“How long was that?”
“Five years,” he replied. “I was recruited right out of high school. Man, my dad wasn’t happy about that.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me to go to college like my brothers and sisters,” he said. “I got three of each, and they’re all white-collar but me and my sister Josefa. She dropped out of college to get married. After baseball got done with me, I never made it back to school.”
“You went to work for your dad?”
Our food arrived on enormous, thick white platters. John had a whole fish while I had ordered the snapper Vera Cruz. There were piles of rice and beans on the side and a big bowl of salad to split, with a fragrant stack of corn tortillas. The food made me think of my mother, who was a wonderful cook. She frequently cooked dishes that
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