I like where we live.
I understand that no place can be perfect. And given my druthers, I’d rather live in a fancy log cabin, on a couple hundred acres on the top of a mountain, surrounded by a lake, with a 15 minute drive into a major city populated by charming, witty, friendly, diverse, Southern folk who were all raging liberals. But this has proven financially, culturally, and geographically prohibitive. It also might defy the laws of physics – not sure.
So that being said, choosing a place to live is largely a series of compromises. You trade in the dream of living on a hundred acres in the mountains, for the pleasant reality of living on a couple of acres half an hour from Washington, DC. The sweet tea is not as plentiful as you like, but the percent of people listening to NPR is. You are not on a lake, but you drive over an inlet to the Chesapeake daily and while you can’t see the mountains, you can see museums, plays and folk music on a nightly basis.
It’s all a compromise. And so far, with a few minor exceptions, (why can’t anyone say the word “pecan” properly?) I’ve been very happy with our choice to live here.
But there has been one significant lapse.
Ever since we moved to the DC area, we have been looking for something. A certain restaurant that is both reminiscent of home and yet as universal as a kiss goodbye: the cheap, authentic, Mexican restaurant.
500 years ago when I was in my early twenties and teaching in Mississippi there was just such a place. It was called “La Pinata” and it was our one shining beacon of hope in the dark, desolate, wasteland that is our 20th state.
There was a small group of us outsiders teaching in Mississippi. I grew up nearby in Tennessee and was completely unprepared for how different and out of place I felt in the small Delta town where we lived. (Just think what my Jewish roommate from Massachusetts or my lesbian friend from Wisconsin felt like).
We were all teaching in Mississippi as a part of “Teach for America” and had, all things considered, adapted well to the area. We were making $19,500 which doesn’t sound like a lot, but we were sharing a house that rented for $450 a month, so we got by.
There wasn’t much to do in the little town we were in. There was a two screen movie theater, but the features didn’t change very often and weren’t always of interest to us (I swear I am not exaggerating when I say that, at one point, the theater showed “Booty Call” for three months straight).
But there was one thing to rejoice about.
La Piñata.
It was a simple, chintzy Mexican restaurant. The kind of place you brought the family to on Friday night. It had tacky velvet paintings on the wall and inflatable parrots holding a bottle of corona hanging from the ceiling. The tables were lacquered, and coke or sweet tea was served in giant plastic tumblers. The chips and salsa were free and plentiful and we never waited more than 4 minutes between when we ordered and when we were served. And to top it off, your average meal cost $4.75 ($5.25 if you wanted to splurge on the extras).
It was also ideal because my Jewish and lesbian friends were both vegetarians (I know, I know, it’s like they picked up a book of Yankee stereotypes before they moved) and La Piñata had 5 vegetarian meals A-E (to differentiate from the meat meals which were numbered).
I doubt there was a week that went by that we didn’t eat there at least once - and usually more than that. It was not uncommon to go there on Friday night only to have friends call you up on Saturday asking if you wanted to meet them there for dinner.
Of course!
It was just that good and it was also just about the only option around for poor school teachers who were good friends with vegetarians.
We became regulars and the waiters and waitresses all recognized us on sight. One even took a liking to me and, in front of my wife, would come over, ignoring the rest of the table, and rub my back saying, “More Cocas Senor?” when my drink needed a refill.
This was very flattering, save for the fact that it was a 200 pound 40-year-old man who was waiting on us.
When we finally left Mississippi, La Pinata, along with my students, my friends, and my co-workers, was one of the few things I missed.
Luckily, these small Mexican places are all over the south. The names are different, but the décor and menus are practically identical. I sometimes wondered if there wasn’t some kind of bizarre program where every small town in the southeast was issued a Mexican restaurant.
The next few years took us to several small southern towns where we could get our weekly dose of authentic Mexican at “La Carretta,” “Rio Grande,” or “El Puerto.”
When we moved to Maryland, we just naturally assumed that we would have no trouble finding our secret deep fried pleasure. Out snooty friends (including my old Mississippi room mate who had relocated here) took us to all kinds of Mexican restaurants, but they were trendy and expensive and had hordes of 22 year old Senate interns lolling at the bar in the one suit their mothers had bought them before they left home.
This wasn’t right! This was not the La Pinata way!
We searched in vain for years, stopping at various places. We went to several of the authentic Mexican restaurants in Latino neighborhoods, but they were, somehow, too authentic. Where was the black plastic salsa bowl? Where were the tacky paintings? And why, in the name of all that is holy, do these places insist on using glasses made of glass?
And tablecloths? What is this, the Ritz?
I have despaired for many years, never thinking I would find this magical place that I missed so much.
And then it happened.
Yesterday we were driving past a strip mall and I saw a sign for “Mi Casita.”
I braked quickly. This looked good – it was in a strip mall. It had a goofy name. I could practically taste the free chips and salsa!
We pulled in and the second I walked in the door, it was like coming home.
We were seated by the friendly waiter and before we could say anything, chips and salsa appeared before us in a little basket and black plastic bowl.
The menu was numbered and there was a small vegetarian section. Sure, there was a small page of “special entrees” that you had to order by name instead of number, but I’m willing to let that slide.
As you might expect, the prices were a bit higher. Something about the passing of ten years and relocating from the nation’s poorest state to the nation’s wealthiest state may have had something to do with it, but for around here, it was still pretty reasonable.
I had a #10 combination (burrito, enchilada and taco) and a diet coke. When my drink came out in a giant plastic cup, I almost started to weep.
A few minutes later, the food was at our table, like magic. It was on the oval shaped white ceramic plates that all of these establishments are issued with their building permits and it looked and tasted just like they had ordered it from La Pinata, flash frozen the meals, flown them to Maryland on a private jet and then warmed them up for us.
I will pause now, in my effusive praise, to give a moment of criticism. As anyone, who has frequented this kind of establishment knows, the proper thing for a waiter to say when he (or she) is placing your food in front of you is “hot plate.” I must have heard it a thousand times and it is like the music of angels singing in my ears.
Well, our waiter said (repeatedly!) “plate hot,” “plate hot.”
This is unacceptable. But Mi Casita has not been open long and perhaps all the employees have not had a chance to peruse the operating manual.
I also was disappointed that there was not any inflatable beer paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling, and the paintings were not on velvet, but you can’t begrudge someone for classing their place up. Besides, the tables were lacquered and that’s what really counts.
I also was saddened to see that there was not a place to purchase mini york peppermint patties - two for 25 cents. I know this seems random, but I swear, I’ve probably been in 20 of these restaurants and they all have mini york peppermint patties two for 25 cents. They are the perfect after-dinner amuse bouche.
But, I was so pleased to find this place, maybe I’ll stop by Sam’s and get a giant tub of them and make the hand written “2 for 25” sign myself.
It’s the least I could do.
It was all so perfect. The chips were hot and delicious, the food was excellent and I smiled all the way through the meal. I kept saying “I’m just so happy” so often that I think my wife thought I was drunk.
When the waiter came to refill my drink, he simply said “Would you like more Coke, sir?”
This was a little disappointing, but we have just met, after all.
Give it time.
So, if there’s anyone out there who has read this with the kind of inner longing that can only come from a life spent too far away from such an establishment, I urge you to head over to Mi Casita.
1334 Defense Hwy # I
Gambrills, MD 21054
(410) 451-0025
And tell them that Better off Dad sent you.
This won’t actually mean anything to them and they’ll probably look at you funny, but it will help me out when I go in next week and complain about the “plate hot” thing.
Que aproveche!
(I don’t actually know what that means, but according to “the internets” that’s how you say Bon Appétit in Spanish)