We gather, loyal readers, to say good bye to a dear friend of Flint. Well, four of them, to be exact. We gather to say good bye to four dear friends of Flint. Amigos, really. Or, as their known in the local community, Los Cuatro Amigos. Yes, in the dead of a very cold winter, one of our Mexican restaurants has gone belly up, bought the farm, cashed in all its chips.
The hand written sign on white board sits in the front window like a suicide note: “We are close.” (That’s not my typo). You are close, Amigos. You may not be close to our wallets anymore, but you will always be close to our hunger for the perfect enchiladas with green sauce. We’ll hear you, Amigos, in the crunch of every hard taco, with or without cheese that may or may not cost extra. We’ll see you in every house salsa, be it pureed, chunky, bland, peppery, green, red, or some in-between brownish color.
Let us honor the memory of our fallen comrades with a reading of the 23rd Psalm (with some minor revisions).
The lunch is my special I shall not miss.
It makes me mow down on warm tacos.
It leads me beside hot salsas
It quiets my hunger
It guides me in its paths of burritos
With cheese toppings.
And yea, though I walk
through the alley of Tex-Mex
I shall fear no charges
(for what should be free anyway).
Your beans and your rice
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
with a basket of tortilla chips.
You anoint my bowl with cheese dip.
My soufflé cup overflows.
Surely the heat of Serranos will follow me
the rest of the day and the night
and I will dwell on the taste of Sangria