The Price of Guacamole

Growing up in Brooklyn in the 70s and 80s, Mexican food wasn’t really a thing. Well, I guess it was a thing, but not a thing that I had any exposure to other than through an episode of The Odd Couple when Oscar ate tacos and aggravated his ulcer. It wasn’t until the early 90s when I was living in Manhattan that I tried Mexican food for the first time. There was—and according to Google, still is—a restaurant in the Village called Caliente Cab Co. that I ate at with friends a few times. I enjoyed it and thought it was quite exotic, but considered it the kind of place one would only eat at on special occasions. I could probably count on one hand the amount of times I had Mexican food before I moved out to Arizona.

In Arizona, Mexican restaurants are ubiquitous—sort of like pizza joints in Brooklyn. “Exotic” is no longer the word I would use to describe Mexican food. We eat the stuff a couple of times a week, but only at a restaurant every other month or so. This, of course, means that Mexican food is on our regular menu at home. We do burritos, quesadillas, and of course, Oscar Madison’s favorite—tacos. We also do taco salad, which is essentially a taco in salad form. (Note: that last bit of clarification was for my New York readers, many of whom are not wise to the ways of Mexican food. I know that many of my Arizona readers likely rolled their eyes and thought, “We know what a taco salad is, you yutz!” If you’re a reader from another state, I formally apologize for not addressing your level of Mexican food awareness within this parenthetical note.)

On taco salad nights we usually include avocado in the mix. Over the past few years avocados have quietly become one of my favorite foods. I’m not a trained food critic, so I can’t quite describe the flavor of an avocado, but I’ll just put it this way—they’re freakin’ yummy. While there’s no denying that avocados by themselves are delicious, one thing you can do with them to heighten their deliciousness is combine them with salsa and sour cream to make guacamole. Finding the right combination of these three ingredients to make the perfect guacamole is tricky—the kind of thing that mystical elves in an enchanted forest might be skilled at—but somehow my 8-year-old son has a knack for getting the combo just right to make what he now calls his “famous guacamole.” So on taco salad nights my son’s “famous guacamole” has become a hot commodity.

On our most recent taco salad night my son suddenly decided to become entrepreneurial with his guacamole. Once he finished mixing his prized concoction he offered it up to the rest of his family for a penny a serving. My wife and younger son took him up on the offer but I passed at first—not because the price was too rich for my blood, but because by the time he got around to making the guacamole I had already finished my taco salad and was full. When I politely declined my son’s offer, he apparently thought I was balking at the cost, prompting him to say, “Okay, instead of a penny you can dance for your guacamole.” I stifled a laugh and decided to have some guacamole after all, at the original price of one penny, as I didn’t feel much like dancing.

After dinner when it was time for my older son to collect the penny from his brother, I heard the younger tot try to renegotiate the deal. “Can I do a dance for you, instead?” he asked. The older boy agreed and 30 seconds of freeform dancing sans musical accompaniment ensued.

Ultimately, the price of my son’s guacamole is pretty reasonable. At all the local restaurants it costs much more than a penny and I’m pretty sure they won’t let you do a dance rather than pay for the stuff. Of course, I don’t know this for sure, because I’ve never asked. Maybe next time I’m at Rosita’s I’ll see if I can do a rumba in exchange for my guacamole. Probably won’t work, but at least it’s got a better shot than offering to do the tarantella for an order of garlic bread in Brooklyn.

Dodging a Pizza Bullet

For the most part, I don’t think that I’m a jerk. Then again, most jerks probably don’t think they’re jerks, so who knows? Point is, in my everyday dealings with people I am generally congenial and polite and usually go out of my way not to be offensive. This is why on the rare occasion when I do act like a jerk, I catch myself off guard.

Today I took the day off from work and caught a movie. (“Argo.” Very good. See it.) Prior to the movie I was looking for something to eat when I spied a pizzeria a few doors down from the movie theater. Originating as I do from Bensonhurst, I’m generally skeptical of pizzerias in Arizona. In the 18 years that I’ve lived in the desert I’ve managed to find a couple of good ones and I generally stick to those. But today, I was nowhere near my regular pizzerias so I figured I’d roll the dice on the one in front of me.

I went in, strolled up to the counter, and took a gander at the various pies on display under the glass. Most of the pies looked like they had been sitting out for a while. I was about to leave when I noticed that at the end of the counter was a Sicilian pie that looked pretty fresh.

“How can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter, who had a good eight inches and 150 pounds on me.

“Let me get one of your squares,” said I.

“It’s called Sicilian pizza,” he said.

(At this point it’s very important for me to point out that the above statement was said in the friendliest, most polite tone imaginable. He was clearly saying this simply to inform, not to enrage. Somehow my brain didn’t catch that significant difference.)

“Yeah, I know that’s what it’s called,” I said, barely able to contain my snarkiness.The man looked at me, mildly bemused, and asked which piece I wanted. (Again, nothing but friendly on his part.)

“I’ll have a corner,” I said.

“Here, let me give you the biggest one,” he said, turning the tray to get to an iPad-sized piece.As he walked over to the oven to warm my slice, I stood by the counter and found myself getting more and more agitated that this guy thought I didn’t know what Sicilian pizza was. I could not let it go.

He came back to ring me up and suddenly I found myself talking.

“I’m from Brooklyn,” I tell this guy who looks like he receives a pension from the NFL. “I know what Sicilian pizza is. I only called it a square because out here I assume that most people on the other side of the counter don’t know what it’s called.”

It was toward the end of my statement that I had a minor out-of-body experience. It was as though I was looking at myself mouthing off to this man who could easily reach across the counter and pound me into pixie dust, and I was helpless to stop myself.

He smiled at me, and for a split second I thought to myself, “So I guess the end comes in a pizzeria. That seems fitting.”

“Would you like something to drink with that?” he asked, as pleasantly as one can imagine.

“Um…uh…I’ll have a small lemonade,” I stammered.

Then he gave me my drink, I paid, and I sat down to wait for my slice. He brought it out to me a few minutes later and I took a bite. To my utter delight it was absolutely delicious. One of the best Sicilian pizzas I’ve ever had. I was overjoyed. But the truth is I’ll never know if it really was that delicious, or if it simply seemed that delicious because everything tastes better after you’ve cheated death.