What am I talking about?
I'm talking about back when my beloved mother was still alive, I used to go over every Saturday morning for breakfast. When my schedule at work changed, so did the time I was able to go over and visit. It became lunch, and, I'm not quit sure how, but the routine also changed from my going over there to eat, to my going over there to take her lunch. I always asked her in advance what she would like, but her order never changed.
What about your father?
You sure do ask a lot of questions, my friend.
Well, my father preferred home-cooked meals, so my mother would still have to fix him something to eat. I think he would have preferred the enchiladas I was bringing over, but to him it was a matter of pride.
The reason I tell you all this is because I was remembering the lady who, week after week, would take my order every Saturday afternoon. She was an older lady with a bad case of arthritis in one hand. Why she was working as the cashier, I don't know. I always thought she might have been the owner of the restaurant, but she could have been a former waitress whose waitressing days were long behind her.
"Welcome to La Chancla," she would greet me. "You can seat yourself."
I was only there EVERY Saturday, rain or shine (just like the post office), and she would treat me as if I had never been there before.
"Maybe she's one of your old high school girlfriends," my older and less attractive brother once told me. "Assuming you had any."
Well, I had plenty. Girlfriends, I mean, and she wasn't one of them. Believe me, if she had been one of my old girlfriends, she would have certainly remembered me. In fact, I would have probably gotten my food for free.
There was a separate To Go section of the cashier’s station, and that's where I would stand, just under their "Order Here" sign. Why she would always assume I wanted a sit-down meal, I don't know.
"No, thank you," I would politely tell her. "I'm here to order out."
If there was already an order there that had previously been called in, she’d ask me, “Did you order the burritos?” Or, “Here are your chile rellenos.”
"Those aren't mine," I would tell her.
"Are you sure?" she would respond.
Of course I was sure.
You see, I never ever called in and only ordered the red chile enchilada plate with extra onions EVERY time I went there. Remember how I just wrote “with extra onions”?
“Did you want onions with that?” she’d always want to know.
"Extra onions," I'd repeat.
My mother didn’t care for their salad, so I’d also tell the lady, “No salad, please.”
“No salad?” she’d say, like not wanting shredded lettuce with your meal was beyond her comprehension.
“That's right.”
“You don’t want any salad.”
“No salad.”
Sometimes, when I was feeling especially frustrated, I’d point out, “I’m only in here EVERY week,” but, mostly, I kept my temper, because the ladies were nice and the food was good and I didn’t want them--thinking the enchilada plate was for me--to do anything to my mother’s food.
Sometimes, after I gave her my order, she’d incorrectly clarify, “CHICKEN enchiladas?”
“No,” I’d correct her. “Cheese.”
Once, this waitress who was especially nice to me, saw the lady write down "chicken enchiladas" on her ordering pad, and, knowing it was me, double-checked, “Did you want cheese or chicken?”
“I ordered cheese.”
And the nice waitress made sure I got my usual.
Now that I think about it, I should have given her a tip.
Too bad I'm cheap.
(I jest, of course.)
I write all this, because I was thinking about the time the older lady handed me my order and said, “Here’s your green enchiladas.”
Green enchiladas?
I checked, and they were red, so all was good.
Except for the salad it came with.
Raising My Father
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