My wife Michelle and I love to frequent a local Mexican restaurant with our friends Dwayne and Kari. It’s located near the center of a strip mall that’s tucked away behind a local bank. Were it not for the huge red letters located high above the entrance boldly announcing “EL AZTECA” and “MEXICAN RESTAURANT” below them in green, one could easily miss it altogether. The diner’s all glass frontage is probably no more than 24 feet wide and, despite its transparency, serves as an icy reflection of what faces it and insulates the warm atmosphere within.
Once inside, the visual, aromatic, and aural senses are bombarded. My faculties wage war as they struggle for distinction above one another. Booths, tables and chairs mock the Crayola 8 count box of crayons and illuminate the room brilliantly in yellow, blue, green and red. Macaws are hand carved in the backrests of the booths, perched majestically and painted in the colorful regalia of those native to Mexico. Antique brick shatters through the stucco interior to create irregular shaped frames that surround beautiful scenes of Old Mexico which are hand painted on the walls. Murals adorn the table tops, sealed by a thick clear varnish.
The smell of sumptuous Mexican fare penetrates my nasal passages forcing saliva to spill into my mouth as the omnivore within anticipates the forthcoming epicurean delights; I am Pavlov’s dog. My ears are filled with the sounds of love and care as family and friends congregate to enjoy each other and partake in the sensual pleasures.
Once seated, we are greeted by Jose, Fernando, Omar, or one of the other native Mexicans as they deliver warm homemade chips and salsa that finally bring some degree of palatial fulfillment. We eventually gratify our hedonistic nature as we sip wine, beer, or Margaritas and sample each other’s dishes which were chosen from a menu that offers a broad range of Mexican culinary classics. Finally, we bid farewell to Raul, the owner. We leave with our senses and our bellies overloaded.