In San Francisco all food is Mexican food. My son only eats black beans and rice. I exaggerate, but not by much. We have our ritual down at Little Chihuahua. He runs to a seat while I wait in line. Everyone knows him, his order, beans, rice, side of guacamole, chips, mixed with pico de gallo. Sometimes I talk philosophy with Cary at the register, he’s working his way through a master’s, reads Plato in Greek, has a book stashed among the wine glasses for the slow days. I mention Seneca, Ingratitude, Cary always seems at peace, big smile, bright intellectual eyes. For months the place only played Black Sabbath, ambiance music for toddlers, kids, baggy-eyed parents. Burritos, enchiladas, pozole, made by brown-skinned, t-shirted, Spanish speaking men. They move with deliberation, like high-speed tai chi masters, their rectangular kitchen, a well-rehearsed stage. Sustenance arrives steaming in small red and yellow plastic bowls. Hudson waits for me to stir it up, then attacks with animalistic hunger, drinks half a cup of water and we’re done. My son is the tallest kid in his class, I’m raising him, but he’s built by Jalisco, Michoacán, Guanajuato.
