Tijuana Gringo |
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In fact, he lost his best worker the week before he left. Fell into that one last argument and the guy up and quit and walked out. Went off and got himself a job at another restaurant in the downtown zone. There be plenty of 'em and lots of work. Everywhere you walk you see the signs WAITER WANTED or TORTILLA WOMAN WANTED.
Yeah it's pretty quiet with the big man gone. No yelling at people who park in his parking lot. No buzz of customers in his restaurant on 4th street. Silence here, beside the rumbling of the traffic and the laughter/screams from the park. One employee -- his housekeeper -- comes for two or three hours every day to feed the parrots and clean their cages and sweep and mop the floors and sidewalks and stairs and balcony and then make herself a sparse soup before she leaves.
Only two apartments upstairs -- Agustin's and mine. I sit here in my place writing and thinking about that God-blessed landlord. Uf. He's a pistol, alright, as my stepdad would say. Agustin himself says he's a real sonofabitch sometimes and I'm NOT talking about his mother, you understand, totally about HIM [you remember?].
But I miss the bloody dude. He may have a flaming temper, but he tells fascinating stories of Tijuana history and his family. How his great aunt used to make stacks of tortillas when she got upset or angry - she would stand there in the kitchen, her bracelets jangling as she went pat pat pat with the masa and then laying them onto the hot metal grill -- flour tortillas, you understand, not corn -- she was from Sonora -- and everyone would know just how angry she was by how many stacks of tortillas she made. The kitchen maid would stay out of her way until she called out -- Maria! Mas masa! Ya, por favor!
I wonder if my new friend the old lady had relatives like that... or, for all I know... she could be related, no?
Yes. I must remember to ask Agustin when he gets back, or... no, maybe I'll ask the lady, first, when I go over again for tea....