Column: Spice of Life | Local Entertainment

I greeted the hostess in Spanish. She turned sharply, walked to an empty table without a word, and handed out a menu, like a sly croupier playing a poker card in a new prospect.

I glanced at the menu, closed it, and put it on the table. One thing I’ve found that you can do to save yourself a ton of time is not to read 100 items on a Mexican food menu. Like so many things we do today, you work hard on chores, it doesn’t get much, and in the end it doesn’t really help you.

A young and beautiful waitress walked up to my table with sparkling eyes and teeth and asked if I was ready to order. I decided to go the English route to make things easier for both of us.

“Sure. Would you please get me two red beef enchiladas, extra beans, and an iced tea?”

“Of course.” She scribbled with a smile. “do you have anything else?”

“Some salsa if you have it. Picante agrees.”

She raised an eyebrow at my request for a hot salsa.

She wrote down my request in her notebook, ordered me a nice drink, and strode to the table opposite me. There was a man eating there alone, looking out of place, as if he was just passing by from another part of the country.

A few minutes later, the grumpy hostess came to my table with a bowl of salsa, followed by the beautiful waitress with my hot plate. I thanked them, poured the salsa over the enchiladas and dug in. They were good, as usual, but I missed the deep fire of the salsa I was expecting. When the waitress came back to check on me, she asked how everything was going.

“Great, but I was wondering if I could get some hotter salsa.”

“Hoter?” she asked with a slight smile on her face. She stopped. “Okay…” The last word was hesitant; a warning shot was fired in my bow.

She left, checked the other table, and disappeared into the kitchen. Soon the hostess came again, this time with a bowl of fresh salsa.

“Here—it’s hot now!” she said feelingly.

I thanked her and she walked over to the other person’s table. I poured the salsa over my leftover enchiladas and took a bite. I took another bite. No heat, no fire. Thinking the waitress must have misunderstood me, I decided to make the most of it and finish my lunch.

After a few minutes, my waitress came back. She walked over to my desk with a tentative smile, a questioning look in her eyes.

“Huh?” She smiled.

“No,” I replied, “it seems milder than the last thing.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Really? That’s our hottest!”

“Wow. Well, how about you bring me your hottest stuff. Like Havanese or something. Thanks.”

Having said that, she smiled, shook her head in disbelief, and shrugged. “OK.”

A few minutes later, the stern hostess reappeared, stopped at another person’s table, and walked up to me.

“Here!” she said defiantly.

I dipped a piece of fries in the new salsa, tasted it carefully, and tried it again.

there is nothing. No zipper at all. I surrendered silently, finished my lunch, picked up the bill and went to the front desk to pay. The hostess came to the registry and I decided to take action.

“Everything is fine except the salsa. No fire.”

“I’m in charge of the salsa,” she growled. “You should order the habanero. It’s too hot for most people to eat.”

“I did. It tasted like tomatoes.”

She looked at my bill. “Wait!” she cried. “This bill is talking about table nine. I thought the waitress was telling me about table five!”

“Who’s at table five?” I asked.

“He’s the one sitting alone!” Her iron mask began to crumble. “He put some money on the table and hurried away. He didn’t look good.” Her eyes widened. “He kept asking for milder, and you kept asking for hotter. I kept taking them out, but I mixed your table with his! Omg!”

Suddenly, her sobbing laughter became the spice I’d been looking for.