We went out to eat the other day, this time hunting for Mexican. We figured, here we were in California after all, and so why not have something besides Japanese food?
See the pretty wildflower in the makeshift vase, the dark wood, the honest, rugged, varnished slab of a table. It was a time-bending trip back to seventies homespun style. Unlike in the seventies though (when people elected to become restauranteurs with the sole qualification of liking to eat), the food was good: Carne, pollo, arroz, pesca, frijoles refritos. You name it (especially in Spanish) they had it — and, what’s more, for a trifling fee they would bring it hot to your distressed rustic table.
Cheerful, noisy eating and drinking occupied us for the usual amount of time allotted to those life-affirming activities when I chanced to gaze upwards and felt my attention snag on the paper mats hung from the ceiling to diffuse the lampglow:
What have we here? I wondered. I stood to look closer at the intricate patterns snipped into the colorful paper mats. It was then that I knew fear: ¡ESCALOFRIANTES CABEZAS DE HUESO!