Wednesday, July 12, 2006

PROUD TO BE A MEXICAN

Since I am a Mexican...
No.
Since I am in a longterm relationship with a Mexican...
Nope.
Since I was raised with Mexican slaves who mowed our yard, cleaned our house...
Definitely not.
Since I met these Mexicans...
Nuh-uh.

Since I was raised in Texas and therefore raised on Mexican food for approximately half of my culinary life, the inner-workings of my body and palate have Mexican food cravings way, way, way more often than the average Londoner. Or New Yorker, for that matter. I've tried multiple supposed Mexican or Tex-Mex restaurants in London. And they're all such shite that the "food" is inedible. I even went to the Texas Embassy restaurant near Trafalgar Square once; I just stared in horror at the plastic, flavorless 'food' they brought to my table. I've tried both Cantina Mercado and La Perla in Covent Garden, both of which made me depressed to be a white boy. (Which pretty much goes against that whole racist philosophy in Texas that if you're not white, then you must be a Mexican, no matter your actual ethnicity. Really, it's sad: Non-Caucasian = Mexican.)

At Cantina Mercado, my margarita was delivered to me in a thimble, which caused me to cry into the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos that had been set in front of me when we had ordered chips and salsa. I've even ventured down to Greenwich and tried a random 'Mexican ' restaurant down there; they served us chips (as in potatoes) and mushy peas with our 'burritos', which were prepared in wheat wraps. I immediately made best friends with the Mexican busboy and in Spanish asked if he could do anything; alas, he could not, as he had given up, too.

For two years I had given up. Then, about a month-and-a-half ago, I met these Mexicans at an international conference in London. As soon as I saw the Mexicans, I ran over to them, wrapped my arms around them, and cried. When they peeled me off, they called security. When the British security guards rushed over, they asked me what the Mexicans had done to me, which only confused my beloved Mexicans even further.

Later, during post-conference drinks, the Mexicans told me about a restaurant called Taqueria in Notting Hill (of all places for Mexicans to be). Naturally, me being me and having no short-term memory, I forgot the name of the place until yesterday. I magically remembered the name of it this morning and demanded to my flatmate that we go there today. And we did. And it was just fucking magical. This little blond Texican was one happy little spicy jalapeno during lunchtime today. I highly recommend it. Plus I had like seven margaritas so it was especially good.

I am Mexican, after all, so I should know. Ok, so I'm not Mexican, but one time when I was a kid, I brought Jose and Jose water when they mowed our yard, and another day Lucia taught me how to vacuum. (Which explains why, to this day, I only know how to vacuum, and am fucking rubbish at cleaning my bathroom or any other grimy household chore.) I always had Mexican babysitters, too, which was pretty liberal of my parents for snobby 1980s Dallas and Houston. The slave trade in Texas is still alive and active today. I'm just sayin'.

I am a TexicanNewYorkerLondoner.

In other news, I love being a man of leisure. I am no longer bored. And I have also (temporarily) fought off the guilt of not being a workaholic for a month...or two. Yesterday, I somehow, magically - this post is just full of magic!, wrote half of that book chapter that's due at the end of the month, and secured another teaching job for the fall. Today, though, for the rest of the afternoon, my flatmate and I wandered all over Notting Hill, Westbourne Grove, and again through Hyde Park - with me taking pee stops every five feet due to the giant To-Go margarita that I convinced my new favorite Mexican waiter to give me. Oh.

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
If Jesus was a Jew, how come he has a Mexican first name? - Billy Connelly