La historia del menudo
She awoke from her siesta with a hunger—and a yearning. Moments later, she found herself stepping inside Taqueria La Michoacana. As if in a daze, she headed for his table: a lone hombre sipping horchata ($1.25).
Their eyes locked.
“Miguelito,” she breathed.
His eyes said he was hungry, too, so she proceeded to the counter. Bright pictures of food with Spanish names and descriptions in English greeted her. She ordered enchiladas ($5.59) for herself and chili rellenos ($5.59) for him. She could tell by the way he looked at her that he craved fire—in his food and in his women.
She carried the entrées, rice, beans and all, to the table after a stop at the condiment bar: she had helped herself to red and green salsa, radishes and a pickled mezcla of carrots, jalapeños and onions.
They exchanged no words while they ate, just furtive glances, winks and sighs of delight. When their plates were bare, he pursed his lips at her and closed his eyes as a stream of diners walked past with bowls of menudo, that delicacy made of hearty broth and tripe.
She recalled a legend that menudo makes men potent and women willing—she raced to the counter and ordered a serving ($3.99). Again, she made a pass at the salsa bar, this time sprinkling dried Mexican oregano on the steaming pot of entrails.
His eyes widened, and he inhaled slowly when she set the abundant bowl between them. They dove in, he with his spoon and she with her fingers. She fondled the jelly-like pieces of tripe before putting them in her mouth, where they melted on her tongue. She held his eyes as she sucked the thick broth off each finger.
When he offered her the pork knuckle, she knew he would love her forever. When every drop of broth had been sopped up with tortillas, they stood and stepped toward their destiny.
Their entwined bodies ached for nourishment when they awoke the next morning to a sun high on the horizon. They readied themselves and headed for Taqueria La Michoacana. She placed the order: huevos rancheros ($3.50) and huevos con chorizo ($3.50).
They feasted on their meals, sharing the eggs and spicy chorizo, soothing their burning tongues with sips of cold, creamy horchata.
He gazed only into her eyes and at his food.
When both plates were bare, she excused herself to the rest room. Her heart had been fluttering since the moment she first walked into this place the night before.
Moments later, as she headed back toward the table, she thought of the day—the life!—of passion that lay ahead of her with this man.
She gasped. A woman in a dark green apron was wiping down their table; the dishes lay in the bus cart.
Her eyes scanned the restaurant, past families, kids and teenagers. She caught a glimpse of her Miguelito running out the door.
“Mi amor!” she cried aloud, oblivious to the odd glances she received as she made her way across the spacious restaurant.
Once on the sidewalk, everything was still; he was gone. He had chosen to flee.
“Mi amor, mi amor, mi amor!" she called several more times before shuddering against a pole. Her racing heart now pained her—and grew cold.