It’s Continental

Every family has its stories. Some of them are humorous and others sad. They tell of personal experiences, hardships, family tragedies, individual triumphs, and often about the follies, foibles, and idiosyncrasies of our family members. The last of these covers many of my family stories.

My father was born in Saltillo, Mexico – a town just outside Monterrey, but he grew up in Nuevo Laredo. Like many folks living along the US-Mexico border, he ate tortillas with almost every meal. Growing up in the homes of his poor uncles, I imagine that some meals consisted of tortillas alone – perhaps with a smear of butter or a bit of cheese. It will thus be no surprise that the remainder of his life, tortillas, especially flour tortillas, would be an important part of most meals.

Yesterday, Susan was recalling a graduation dinner – mine, at the end of medical school. My parents attended the graduation, and then took us to dinner at La Hacienda de Los Morales in Houston. I remember it as an expensive if fancy restaurant of a type that Susan and I rarely patronized. My parents, lifelong buddy Fred (The Gar) Garcia and his then spouse Estella, and Susan and I had my graduation dinner there.

I couldn’t tell you what I ordered. Susan has no memory of her meal either. Someone ordered the Huachinango a la Veracruzana – oven baked red snapper in a tomato sauce with jalapeno slices, sliced olives, capers, and onions. After the drinks and entries had been served, my father waited, impatiently, for the tortillas to arrive. The rest of us began to eat. After a while, the waiter returned to our table to see how we were doing. “We’re waiting for the tortillas to arrive,” said my father.

“We don’t serve tortillas,” answered the waiter. “Our food is served continental style.” My father muttered curses in Spanish under his breath. He was fit to be tied. I don’t recall clearly, but perhaps the waiter brought some kind of bread to the table. Whatever, my father was not pleased.

Now, to me this was a very small thing, but it ruined the dinner for the person footing the bill. When Fred recounts this story, he breaks into a chortle when he says with exaggerated gestures, “What do you mean you don’t serve tortillas. Is this not a Mexican restaurant?” We cannot help but join the laughter.

I Googled La Hacienda de Los Morales early this morning. It closed many years ago. All that remains of it is the stories that its employees and patrons still tell.