TAQUERIA LA PIÑATA

Today I tried to talk to someone.

It has been three days. Three days that I've been walking in the streets, going to different places, and didn’t find someone to talk to. It felt like chasing my own inspiration. So today I’ve decided to go to a place I know of. It is a small Mexican restaurant where the food is good and the people always pleasant. I should be able to make an interesting encounter.

This morning the weather is unsettled. It rained heavily all night. Now at noon, the sun is out but the stormy feeling is still in the air. A cold wind blows from the ocean.

“What are you drinking?” I ask to the guy next to me. “Horchata. You want to try it?” He opens the top of his drink and hands it to me. It's delicious. The taste of rice and cinnamon is very refreshing. His name is Lance. He is waiting for his food. We are sitting side by side on tiny stools at the Taqueria - La Piñata. The restaurant stands on the street next to a mini mall. It is a square kitchen surrounded by long sliding windows where the customers order their food. Inside, two Mexican ladies - Alessandra and Lisette - work rapidly broiling meat and preparing nachos, burritos, and tacos.

Lance is an engineer in a post-production company, a few buildings from here. I take him for a Mexican but he is actually from Navaho and Irish origin. He has been living in Los Angeles for seven years and enjoys his time here. As soon as he gets his food, he hands me his business card and rushes back to work. Too bad, we didn’t have time to talk more. I didn’t even take his picture.

Inside the kitchen, Alessandra and Lisette discuss and joke while they cook. They are friends who have known each other for a long time. They came together from Puebla, Mexico. I ask them questions in English but they don’t seem to understand well. I switch to Spanish and attempt to hide my French-English accent. Their faces open up. They seem to appreciate my clumsy effort to communicate. Alessandra approaches just when their boss – an Indian man from the restaurant next door - enters. He looks at me suspiciously. Then he stares at my notepad and camera. It just doesn’t seem like a good time to continue the conversation. I take a sip of Coke.

It’s already 1pm. Three Mexican workers eat quesadillas next to me. It’s freezing cold in the shade. A sudden gust of wind blows my neighbor’s paper plate away and spread the rest of his food on the bar. He opens the sliding window and, in Spanish, he asks Lisette for a rag. He also offers to repair the sliding window that doesn’t slide well anymore. They seem to know each other and start to joke around. I only catch tiny bits of their conversation. The man wipes the bar and gives her the rag back. “Gracias paesano. Andale!” she says. The men laugh and leave.

Then I meet Irvin. He is waiting for his food with a colleague. He accepts to pose for me but can't stay more. He grabs his food and heads to his car. Again, not enough time to talk.

Two police officers in khaki uniforms are choosing their menus. They don’t want to be photographed. I realize they are much more concerned about their figure than anything else. “Come on, you go on the picture. You’re fitter”, says the one with the aquiline nose. “No, I’m not. You work out. You’re slimmer”, the short one answers. I finally suggest taking a picture from behind. The shorter one reluctantly agrees. He holds his stomach in. I trigger my camera.

Today my experience was like the weather – a little unsettled. After all, only one thing kept its promise. The spicy sauce was indeed spicy.