Chapter 7 – Should Have Asked

Mexic 103 – 3506 E. Layton Ave., Cudahy

I was over at the Cudahy Library, my new favorite public library, on a Saturday—I love this library, it could be your new hangout. There's a really nice reading area with a lot of windows and light, though the fireplace wasn't going on this morning, and I was trying to warm up. I was on my bike—it wasn't that cold out, but I had underdressed by one sweater, not anticipating the chill from high humidity mixed with the 20 mph wind. I looked on my phone map for Mexican restaurants, and as luck would have it, there were two that were supposed to be open at 10AM, just across the street from each other, and a few blocks from the library. The one, Lala's Place, is in the old family restaurant location I used to frequent—I mean a lot—I have hours and hours of notebook journal writing in there. The thought of going there made me a little uncomfortable, kind of like dropping in unannounced on an old girlfriend and getting no smiles, just her husband with that “is there going to be trouble” look on his face. Their “Open” sign was dark, however, so I was temporarily off the hook—though perhaps a return is in my near future. The other place, though, Mexic 103, was bright and welcoming. I went in like I owned the place—it was empty but for a man and woman sitting at the bar—they did own the place, or worked there. Drama was still on my mind, but I had not previously dated either of them, and everything was cool. She said I was the first customer of the day, and they'd be glad to serve me lunch even though it was 10AM and I'd eaten breakfast just two hours earlier. The TV was silently cataloging Trump atrocities and Spanish language radio was playing lively music—I wished momentarily that I was that person who would dance, even though you're the only person in a room. I asked for “Tijuana Tacos”—steak, chorizo, pastor mixed together, cilantro and onions. The orange rice was shaped into a pyramid—I climbed it, I ate it—and the refried beans were sublime (I'm the person who might like refried beans more than anything). The tacos were on smaller tortillas, doubled up—really good. I destroyed this meal, as if breakfast had only been a hallucination. As I ate, I wrote in my pink notebook and looked around. The place is huge, with a big back room, and an outdoor patio fenced in, and a nice bar with lots and lots and lots of tequila. I imagine this place is happening in the evenings. I thought to ask what “Mexic 103” meant (I mean, the address is 3506, 2019 is the year, and 420 is weed, but 103?), but suddenly felt shy and didn't feel like asking. I figured I could look it up on the internet, later. I'll do that now. Internet tells me that Mexic 103 is “a Mexican restaurant in Cudahy.” I should have asked.