A Restaurant in Guadalajara

Wanna eat here? I asked my brother. There’s a line, it must be good. An hour later, a waiter served us oval plates with golden potato medallions and glazed enchiladas. The red salsa opened my sinuses, in starts and spurts, until I was back in Mama’s kitchen, licking my lips, savoring her dishes. But—youth never tasted so good. This is the best meal, Arturo said. Like men who can’t stop talking about the earthquake that, minutes before, shifted their house, we focused the conversation on enchiladas, on the delicate skin of the tortillas, on the fragrant smell. Like long fingers, the spices in the secret sauce touched forgotten keys, taking music out of pianos that we had thought were abandoned or destroyed. We remembered the past. Polished in red salsa, it was more beautiful the second time.

Published in Tahoma Literary Review