Like an icon for some minor but ardently worshiped deity, the painting stands behind a giant molcajete of guacamole, its colors splashier even than patrons usually expect from a Mexican restaurant, the painting, that is; the guacamole is just green.
“That’s got to have a dozen avocados,” she says aloud, and although no one can hear her, the canvas vibrates lightly with her words. “This party is going to be a real wingding. Unless guacamole is all there is.” She watches as the two that brought her enter the party room. “Hey.”
Better view from here than days on end looking at the arm of that couch, I’ll tell you that much. And traveling wrapped in brown paper made my dyspepsia flare up. She suppresses a burp and shifts her attention. “Look at that bar. What a busy night.”
The wait staff has things down better than management. After a bit of a dressing down from one of the two who stuck her in the car back seat sideways, the assistant manager issues staccato instructions to a brawny young guy. He quickly heaves the two barrels that had been relegated to the corners out into the main part of the party room to serve as high-top tables.
Guests can now move the straight-backed chairs ringing the room like ranch fencing into little klatches. The lead server, a blonde grown-up, moves the decorations from the sideboards to the barrels and pauses to look at the painting. “I was wondering why the room was laid out like a funeral in a mafia movie.” The blonde smiles but doesn’t hear her.
She watches the blonde calibrate her interactions with the two who carried her in from the car: efficient, alert, but not obsequious.
Runners arrive with platters of quesadillas, tostadas, and flautas, plus little dishes of pico de gallo and sour cream.
“Quite the spread. Could someone make me a plate?”
The blonde moves from a new pair of guests to confer quietly with one of the two hosts, who rolls her eyes and nods, swatting the air. They share a “carry on” moment. The server hustles off to the bar.
Congratulatory hugs from the dozen plus guests for both hosts, who are all smiles as they position themselves in front of the painting. “Is my lipstick all right?” she asks as the phone camera flashes.
The guests converge on the buffet table and begin loading plates. “You’d think they’d have a pile of napkins along with the silverware rolls. Now all those unused utensils will have to get washed again?” she asks.
The blonde returns with a tray: mostly margaritas, but also one top-shelf mezcal and one she guesses is a mai tai. “I hope a kid somewhere gets that umbrella tonight as a souvenir.”
One of the hosts pings a glass, and the blonde claps to back her up for quiet. It’s a giddy speech, ad lib, no notecards or multiply-folded ratty piece of paper. Shout-outs, heartfelt gratitude, some mention of the painting that doesn’t quite compute. “That one seemed so polite. Does tequila make people point? Kind of rude.”
After the speech, people continue to enjoy their drinks and each other’s company. A few people drift away, ready to head out to their next thing.
She observes a conversation between the blonde and a guest. They don’t point, but they do stare. “Manners. Honestly.” They appear to arrive at an agreement. The older one approaches the speechifying host, and her delight seems genuine. She flashes a big grin and a thumbs-up at the blonde.
As the crowd thins, hugs all around, the blonde and the hosts pack up to-go boxes with leftovers to send home with the lingerers. The blonde stuffs a plastic tub to its brim with the guacamole. The speechifier puts the tub in a paper bag with two boxes.
“Too bad the tostadas don’t keep.”
The hosts return to stand in front of the painting, seeming happy and wistful, both. A respectful moment swells, and they leave without looking back.
“Oh,” she says. “Good-bye.”
The party room is quiet now. Servers and runners clear the table cloths and reset the tables and barrels and vases of white silk tulips. The blonde moves the painting to one side. The room dividers rolled aside reveal a bigger space with a fireplace. “That would have been nice, but too big for that crowd.”
After the restaurant empties, the blonde returns and speaks directly. “You get to go home with me. I’ve got just the spot for you.”
