Mexican food is by far, my favorite and least favorite food of all time. Yeah, the blend of meat and cheese and spice is magic in my mouth, but at the same time, it means I have to be around Mexicans.
Every Sunday, La Hacienda decides to kick the Mexican experience up a notch and bring in a bunch of musicians to form a ragtag Mariachi band. These dudes seldom wear the same outfit, often look like meth addicts and always play their music as loud and as close to your face as possible. I do not understand a culture the likes three horns, one accordion, two guitars and a singer all playing at full volume in 2400 square feet. Yeah Mexicans, you tamales are fantastic, but I can’t afford them if I have to have a tympanoplasty. Look it up, nerds.
And because Jesus is a little prankster, me and HEB always seem to get the urge for spicy cheesy meats on Sunday. We always forget that Sunday is Mariachi Explosion until we open the door to the restaurant and then, are we blown back a few inches, cartoon-style, by the overwhelming power of sound. We look at each other, HEB rolls her eyes, “son of a bitch” I say, and then we make the decision to suck it up, order extra large margaritas and politely decline their offer to serenade us at 150decibels.
So, as order and try to have a half-screamed conversation in this crowded restaurant, HEB’s face has started to look pale and her eyes grew wide. It could have been that we were talking about the perils of eating beets in the 24hours before/after butt sex, but no, it was because behind me, that band was approaching. HEB frantically tried to wave them off, thankfully, she knows more Spanish than me…fluent, actually. So, as I rudely yelled “NO ME MOLESTE”, she politely, yet forcefully explained to them that their services were not required.
The Mariachi Men seemed to understand and took this opportunity to break, maybe get some churros…or a beef taco. They dispersed for a few moments of blissful silence, until they decided that this was the perfect time to re-tune their instruments…to really make sure everything was harmonious…because that matters to musicians…IT is just that they did in right next to our table in the middle of the restaurant. One Mariachi, a trumpet player, decided that it was necessary to test his own skills and started to play as high as he could go, just cuz he can. He looked right into my eyes, going octaves higher and higher, as if sputtering a trumpety “fuck you” to me and anyone else who would dare deny them in the future. The trombone player joined in with this cacophonous miasma, playing at different rhythms, disjointed notes.
I had this image of him taking this hot cheese load right in the eyes and having it sizzle right off the mini-skillet. In his fear, he drops the trumpet so he can claw this concoction off his face, trying to salvage his sight. I take the opportunity to jump on his trumpet with full force and crush it into a useless metal hunk. Then I spit on his trembling body, down the rest of my margarita, scream “that’s what you get, you Mariachi Motherfucker” and strut out of the place to the sound of applause.
Lucky for that bastard, he broke eye contact and all the merry men decided to go on their merry way.
If there is a hell, there is a Mariachi band there.