El Asador, Numero Cinco

El Asador #5. MacArthur Park. 5:30pm. I usually never stop—I move through a crush of people on the beaten sidewalks, past men trying to shove papers in my hand with quiet insistence, a choir of Ficas, ficas, ficas, eye-dees, and the babies lurching with uncertain steps and the large women in front of sidewalk sales of pirated dvds and the endless parade of strollers, all on my way to the descent, the metro that will take me home. But on this day, the metro would only take me home to a refrigerator of flour tortillas, one egg, some peppered turkey and slices of havarti cheese, one Corona, ketchup, tamari and cupboards of spices and grains I’m too tired to cook.

So it was that I brought myself to the doorstep of El Asador #5, which lends itself to the question of where are numbers one through four. The Asian woman behind the counter is the same as always. This place is hers, I imagine. She knows Spanish better than I do. Her makeup is perfect, but then, she is not the one standing over the grill. She doles out one, maybe two napkins and sometimes if you’re owed a penny, she slams the register shut and hands you nothing.

The man at the grill is the same, too. Short, dark, mustached. A friendly energy coming from him even as he chops chicken and pours red sauce over his creations. The smoke from the grill curls up into the air between us.

I ordered the special while we all stood there. Four tacos for $2.99 plus tax. De pollo. This time she handed me $1.75 change from a five dollar bill and I actually tally in my head the extra four cents over the last four visits that have been squeezed from me. I won’t get paid until the next day, and what would I want with four pennies anyway? And still I wonder how many other customers come through, losing pennies, and if the woman has had some sort of amazing luck by getting an extra penny out of each one. Should I imagine she gives these random cents to the cook, who has no tip jar?

I pulled up a stool after she handed me the paper plate of food and two small napkins. I asked for an extra, and wonder if perhaps the extra cent is to cover the cost of each napkin. I half-listened to the couple next to me, a man and a woman, talking in English about male/female romantic relationships. My tacos were far more alluring.

The tacos were sopping with juices, piled with finely chopped onion and bits of fresh cilantro with a deep red sauce that held flecks of chile seeds, all in my fingers, waiting to be licked. Since I knew from experience that asking for a fork was akin to an affront of the woman at the cash register, I decided to scoop out the little chunks of chicken and onion with my fingers, allowing one napkin for my skirted lap and the other two for the perpetual cleaning of my fingers, post-lick. I had asked for no lemon. I hate lemon flavoring the already succulent chicken, the onion, and cilantro. This was better. This was perfect. I licked my fingers throughout the overheard conversation of what was cool and what was not when one was in a relationship. I licked and wiped each finger with utmost concentration as I listened to the man describe the antics of a ten-year-old boy they both knew. The ten-year-old had grabbed a woman’s ass. The woman agreed that it was all in fun, this ass-grabbing by boys at the age of ten, and I picked the chicken and cilantro out of my teeth and thought about this.

Nothing, though, interrupted my enjoyment of the meal. I took it as a piece of the MacArthur Park my parents will never know, because they knew it, once. This MacArthur Park is of the tamales, tube socks, pirated dvds, and social security numbers for sale, and the tiny places like El Asador up against the well-lit, open late McDonalds next door. I vowed to hand off my hard-earned pennies once again to El Asador #5, though next time, I would ask for a bit of conversation in exchange. Starting with, Where are the other four Asadors, por favor?

Comments

[Loretta]

What a great slice of life into your day. I can taste the chicken and cilantro, one of my favorite combos!