Mexicano Postizo
Jetlagged, famished and fed up at last with ESPN’s broadcasting duo (who ARE these numbskulls? is this really the best they can do?), I rode my bike to my favorite Mexican diner to watch the second half of the Mexico/Portugal game.
The Acapulco Deli is one of those local jewels that make living nearby seem like it’s worth at least a hundred or two dollars worth of rising Brooklyn rents. It’s cheap (and like, 1996 cheap, you feel me), the food is great, it’s clean and spacious… basically, it should be on the fucking cover of Zagat’s for Best Everything, and that’s why one thing this missive will not contain is an address. Some things are sacred.
The late morning crowd was a mix of Mexicanos and stragglers from the nearby uber-artist warehouse. No one in the place was not watching the match, and that included the lone, scrambling waitress. A tense atmosphere presided. The cook, in particular, who in my years of patronage has NEVER taken a day off, and who can single-handedly feed ten tables and a full load at the counter and still seem like he’s in third gear, like he’s working but not really “working”… this Rock of Gibraltar seemed agitated on the whole, and his first lieutenant was positively shattered.
At one table sat a lonely, pony-tailed Mexico supporter, sipping his first Corona of the day and having his say at regular intervals. Despite not understanding any of his running commentary, there is no doubt in my mind as to his type. There were swarms of them populating the Vet of my childhood. The Phils are leading the division, Carlton’s on the mound, first inning, first pitch, ball one, and it’s “oh you fuckin bum you must be kidding me.” With some people, sports are just another outlet for their long litany of discontents.
Mexican workmen speckled with drywall dust came in and out for the seemingly endless Cokes they drink in a day. They stared at the television and yelled things at the cook, who yelled back at them. Things reached a crescendo around the time of Bravo’s penalty kick, and when it sailed over the crossbar, the mood shifted from anxiety to resignation. The cook said “el stupido!” and then turned back to his empire, peering at the tube over his shoulder now and then but without much purpose. The news that Iran had evened their match with Angola brought the room back to life, and when that result held, and Mexico was assured its place in the next round, all the angst of the morning was gone like breakfast. The noon sun was high, there was a breeze in the air, and the Acapulco Deli had lived to fight another day.
The Acapulco Deli is one of those local jewels that make living nearby seem like it’s worth at least a hundred or two dollars worth of rising Brooklyn rents. It’s cheap (and like, 1996 cheap, you feel me), the food is great, it’s clean and spacious… basically, it should be on the fucking cover of Zagat’s for Best Everything, and that’s why one thing this missive will not contain is an address. Some things are sacred.
The late morning crowd was a mix of Mexicanos and stragglers from the nearby uber-artist warehouse. No one in the place was not watching the match, and that included the lone, scrambling waitress. A tense atmosphere presided. The cook, in particular, who in my years of patronage has NEVER taken a day off, and who can single-handedly feed ten tables and a full load at the counter and still seem like he’s in third gear, like he’s working but not really “working”… this Rock of Gibraltar seemed agitated on the whole, and his first lieutenant was positively shattered.
At one table sat a lonely, pony-tailed Mexico supporter, sipping his first Corona of the day and having his say at regular intervals. Despite not understanding any of his running commentary, there is no doubt in my mind as to his type. There were swarms of them populating the Vet of my childhood. The Phils are leading the division, Carlton’s on the mound, first inning, first pitch, ball one, and it’s “oh you fuckin bum you must be kidding me.” With some people, sports are just another outlet for their long litany of discontents.
Mexican workmen speckled with drywall dust came in and out for the seemingly endless Cokes they drink in a day. They stared at the television and yelled things at the cook, who yelled back at them. Things reached a crescendo around the time of Bravo’s penalty kick, and when it sailed over the crossbar, the mood shifted from anxiety to resignation. The cook said “el stupido!” and then turned back to his empire, peering at the tube over his shoulder now and then but without much purpose. The news that Iran had evened their match with Angola brought the room back to life, and when that result held, and Mexico was assured its place in the next round, all the angst of the morning was gone like breakfast. The noon sun was high, there was a breeze in the air, and the Acapulco Deli had lived to fight another day.
2 Comments:
holee sheet mang, learn some spanish and maybe you too can turn to univision 41 when you are tired of the espn and stop coming in our delee to spy on us for your stupeed post. el stupido!!
oye anónimo, el hermano justo del mundo árabe, te gusta hablar mucho cuando nadie sabe tu nombre
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