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“Yea, but I’ve been cooped up in a hotel for the race and never have time to go around trying the food, Sparkles,” he explains.
“So this is your first time trying Mexican food?” I am surprised by the fact that a grown Latin man hasn’t had tacos Al Pastor in his life.
No puede ser.
“I’m not that out of touch. I’ve had enchiladas, chilaquiles, tamales and a burrito. But never a real taco unless you count Taco Bell as a part of the taco realm.”
“Este güey no acaba de decir tacos mexicanos en la misma frase que Taco Bell.”Chanel scoffs in disbelief.
“In his defense, Taco Bell was pretty good when I went to the United States,” Cleo says before she looks at Chanel’s and my faces. “No me miren así.We all know it’s nothing likeun taco mexicano. Su error es mencionarlos en la misma frase.Theyare not the same!” She directs the last part directly at Xavier.
“So we’re playing this game. Mention at least three Brazilian dishes you guys have eaten.” He smirks cheekily as if we’ve never had Brazilian cuisine.
“Feijoada,” I mention first.
“Bolinho de Bacalhau,” Cleo says.
“Moqueca,” Chanel finishes.
“Okay, but that doesn’t mea—” Xavier tries to finish before I cut him off.
“Don’t try to save yourself when you’ve never had the most basic and traditional dish that Mexico has to offer. I cannot believe Ale hasn’t shoved it down your throat by now.” I pat him on the back.
He sits quietly as we look at him, dumbfounded still. I don’t blame the man for never having an authentic Mexican taco. But even so, it’s shocking, to say the least. He’s trying it for the first time properly. That’s the most important.
“Don’t worry. You’re in good hands. In T-minus two minutes, you’ll have one of the best tacos you’ll ever eat,” Cleo reassures him.
Right on time, the tacos are placed on the table. The waiter brings the drinks along with some lemon, salsas, cilantro, pineapple, and guacamole.
“This tastes likeCanijca,” he says while taking another sip of his Horchata.
“It’s basically the same thing but with rice instead of corn,” I tell him with a small smile. Rubbing my hands against my shorts, I grab a small plate and start assembling the taco for him. My hands reach for thetortilla de maiz, laying it flat. I put the pastor meat on the tortilla, squeeze some lemon juice, sprinkle some cilantro, and place a few freshly cut pineapple cubes on top.
“Here, eat it like this first. Then if you want, you can add salsa, avocado, or some onion.” I hand him the plate.
He places the taco between two of his fingers and examines it before taking a bite. Me, Chanel, and Cleo watch him as if it’s a life-or-death situation.
“Holy fuck, that’s good.”
“I told you,” Chanel, Cleo, and I say in tandem.
“I was confused as to why you added the pineapple, but I really like it.” Xavier is staring at the taco like it’s the next big thing. I can’t help but laugh in pleasure that he’s enjoying it.
“Try it every way and see what you like or don’t like. I ordered you ten to cultivate the full experience.”
We eat in silence for the next few minutes before the radio starts playing “La Chica Del Bikini Azul” by Luis Miguel.
The twins start singing quietly as I bob my head back and forth.
I sing softly under my breath and Xavier looks over at us when the best part plays.
El sol de Méxicosings over the radio.
“Who’s singing this?” Xavier asks while scarfing down the tacos in front of him.
“Luis Miguel, the sun of Mexico,” Cleo says before taking a sip of her drink.
“I’ve never heard of him before. I’m guessing eighties based on the beat.” Xavier finishes chewing.
