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03/03/2002 Entry: "SlaveGirl's Mission"
Two nights before leaving Mexico, we all ate at a restaurant called Peacock's. It was a wonderful place, a huge outer area open to the sky, a large, circular bar underneath a thatched roof with a barely trickling fountain in the center, and even a cat, who had the coloring of a cow, more than a feline.
They had a fish on their daily special list that sounded pretty good, in fact, most of us ordered it in one form or another. But soon after ordering, our waiter came back to regretfully tell us that it had sold out. It was pretty early in the evening so it was a surprise, but we all peered intently at the menus again and came up with substitutions. The waiter went away, and only moments, later, the chef himself came out to our table, to tell us that we would indeed be able to have our original orders. One way or the other, we'd have our fish.
This was pretty surprising. We certainly weren't regulars, it almost felt weird, being treated so nicely as strangers. I figured that perhaps they had more they didn't know about, they had counted wrong. After he left, theories expanded to him running to a nearby dock somewhere and fishing himself, or, the more likely idea, that the fish was plentiful and he would take some from the nearby restaurant, The Blue Turtle, a few doors down.
This idea might seem strange, but I have learned that many restaurants do have relationships with each other, the common image of a housewife going across the street to borrow an egg can be just as common in the restaurant world. In any event, our dinners did arrive, and the specialty fish of the day was indeed on some of our plates.
As I sat there, I started to grow really curious about where it came from. I also wondered how this particular restaurant worked. At the Restaurant, numbers of specials, or any item available, are put in the computer system. As an item is ordered, the number is decreased, and when the Resaurant is sold out, the waiter knows when he tries to enter another order, and can go back and tell the diner that sadly, they are all gone. I wanted to know what happened, how a few minutes went by before we were told they were out of the fish, and how it came to pass that the chef came out to tell us later that it was still available.
Sadly, the latter question, really the more intriguing of the two, was never found out. I sat there waiting for a chance to go talk to our waiter, slightly nervous somehow. I felt I had to tell him I worked in a restaurant myself, that maybe then he wouuld take the time to talk to me, the "one of us" network perhaps allowing me to learn what had happened with the fish.
When he stood alone for a moment by the bar, I walked up to him, and told him where I was from, and how my restaurant kept track of the evening's inventory. I asked how his worked. He said that they had a computer for some things, but not for keeping track of inventory. Each time an order was put in, the waiter would decrease the number on a board back in the waiter's station. When it was at zero, the item was off the menu. With our order, we had ordered wine and dishes at the same time. In the time it took him to go get the wine and give it to us, the last fish were ordered by other diners, hence the delay in his eventual return with the news of the fish being sold out.
After he explained this to me, he leaned in with interest. "Where did you say you were from?"
I repeated that I was from the San Francisco Bay Area. He asked if I knew where a certain Ruth's Chris restaurant was, and I did. He then asked if I could bring something to a friend of his who worked there. I was suspicious, and angry at myself for then being so. Maybe post September 11th stuff was floating around my head, or maybe it's just my nature to be cautious. I asked him what he wanted me to bring. "Oh! Don't worry, just photos, and a letter to my friend Joel, who works there. When are you leaving?" When I told him I would be gone in two days, he requested that I come back the next evening during his shift, so that he could give me the photos of his kids and the letter. I agreed. I figured we could stop by on our way to dinner, or at least, I could get a taxi there.
I am sure my parents thought I was nuts. But this was part of the whole thing for me. I enjoy being a part of the restaurant crowd. This little adventure, in my mind, was one member of the scene to another. Sure, I was back of the house, and he was front, two sides that often clash and quarrel, but this was Mexico, a balmy evening and a chance for me to help out a fellow guy behind the lines, even if they were different lines than mine. So I went for it. The next night, I showed up and asked for H. He saw me and bowed, his hands in prayer position in front of his chest. He took me aside and opened an envelope. " I want you to see what is in here, it is important to me, too." He took out two letters, one from his wife, one from him, and several photos of him and his children. He understood my reservation, and that it wasn't because he was Mexican, or I was white, or anything like that. I just want to know what I am carrying, it is sad that the world today decrees so much caution when trying to interact with others. He put everything back in the envelope, licked it shut, and wrote his friend's full name on the front. He also gave me a piece of paper with his friend's name and phone number. He hugged me, and thanked me. I told him I would try to deliver it on Tuesday or Wednesday. He smiled, I smiled, and then I was back out into the narrow, dusty street, and into the car.
I carried the letter home in my CD case, and planned to bring it by on Wednesday. Did Joel really exist? Would he be where H. said? I hoped so, I didn't want to cold call a family, or even just a man, trying to explain why I had to deliver something to him.
The completion of my exciting (ha!) dual country adventure in.....the next entry.
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