Do I hear mariachis?

The choice to eat dinner on a commuter train is never an easy one.  Certain items should be ruled out completely.  Anything requiring a fork or spoon or anything that creates a pungent odor.  A short list:  Fish (smells), Soup (spillage factor), Chinese Food (Complicated), Sushi (Raw fish on a train, come on).  Last night, the woman next to me went all in on a quesadilla with chips and guacamole from Moe’s.  On a train.  During peak commuting time.  Bold move my dear, bold move.

Stop after stop she powered through that quesadilla, utilizing the dip cups of quac, sour cream and salsa.  All strategically positioned in the styrofoam tray to distribute weight evenly.  Plus a bag of chips to her right on the seat.  This is a tricky maneuver on an express because we hit switches as a decent clip.  This means one false move or bump and your mexican feast is no bueno.

Photo by Gerardo Gonzalez

As she finished up, successfully accomplishing what so many have failed to do, a little mariachi band played in my head.  I think it was Besame Mucho.  Not that I wanted her to kiss me.  It was the only song I could remember from the last time I listened to mariachis.  And as they played and I arrived at my stop, I thought, “Well played my dear, well played.”


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