Margarita in Modesto
Driving my ’63 Lincoln Continental through California was arduous because of all the states; this is where the most of my clients were headquartered. I rolled into my favorite strip mall next to yet another motel for no other reason than my fondness of the bartender, Abel. He and his family had been in the area for two generations and his father owned Cortez. Everything about the place was authentic and the food so good it could set up shop in mid-town Manhattan and be a success. I had said this to Abel who was aware of what he had but would never leave Modesto. His roots ran deep within the community.
The outside of Cortez belied the restaurant behind the steel and glass doors. I pushed them open and sat upon a barstool covered with cowhide.
“Hola Abel. As always this place is like a port in the storm.”
He laughed. “Rough day?”
“It was a long one. I’ll have a margarita, same as those guys at the table by the window.”
“You got it Cecil; one margarita coming up on the rocks with salt.” He looked at me and smiled. “I’ll bring you chips and salsa as you look over the menu board.” Abel was referring to the fresh offerings, which changed daily.
Abel went to work on my margarita. He knew better than to ask me to call a brand as he had a wall dedicated to tequila and he always grabbed one of his choice. Each time it was different and was smooth as silk. He filled a shaker with crushed ice and added a couple of ounces of clear tequila, to that he poured an ounce of triple sec. He estimated his pours and I trusted that Abel knew what he was doing. He added freshly squeezed lime juice to the shaker. I knew it was fresh because I viewed the crate of fresh limes behind the bar. He shook the mixture and placed a strainer on top before setting the concoction down. Abel took a rocks glass from the shelf, filled it with ice and rubbed fresh lime around the rim before plunging it into a plate of course salt. He strained the margarita from the shaker into the waiting glass. My mouth watered as he set my margarita in front of me.
“Haven’t had margaritas this good since my visit to Zijhuataneo, which I know is where you parents hail from.” I took a sip and it was better than I recalled. “It looks like my friends at the table are enjoying their cocktails after a long workday.”
“What makes you think that Cecil?” Abel asked.
“Business suits are a giveaway and they probably need a couple of your stiff margaritas after a long day. It looks as if they’re still working because they have paperwork out. It’s probably not wise to drink and work but to each his own.” I puckered a bit from the salty-sour margarita.
“You think you have them figured out.” Abel threw down a bowl of salsa; made on site, of course. “I’ll be able to tell you the nature of their business, depending on whether they order another margarita. Dan Powell is predictable in that way.”
“So you know one of the gentlemen. What’s his business?”
“Dan’s a regional sales manager for a restaurant supply company. We go way back because he tried to make me a customer when he started out. They weren’t a good fit for Cortez because we buy mostly from small batch producers direct. Dan became my customer when he tasted the food and we’ve remained friends. Uh oh.”
“What’s up Abel?”
“Dan just swirled his hand in the air, which means they’re ready for another round.”
“That’s good news right? They probably hit a sales quota.”
“Give me a minute while I fix them another couple of drinks,” Abel said as he performed his margarita magic again. The only difference was that he made the drinks extra strong and served them up in a tumbler. Abel walked to the table, not staying long to chat.
I was curious about Dan and his co-worker. “What’s their story Abel because you seem to know? Extra-large margaritas must mean they’re celebrating something.
“Not exactly Cecil. Dan only orders a second round when he’s firing an employee. It softens the blow, most of the time.”
“What happens when it doesn’t go well?” I asked.
“I’ve never had to fire a person because all my employees are family members who get the job done. Things can get nasty. I’ve seen grown men cry or storm off in a rage and Dan ends up with his head hanging. He doesn’t like axing people but it comes with the territory.”
“That sucks. Seems to be going smoothly as the guy is just shaking his head in agreement.”
“Look at the way his fingers are turning white because he has a death grip on the glass.”
“You don’t think?” I said to Abel.
“It would be a first and I hate to see good tequila go to waste.”
Abel and I braced ourselves for what was coming next. Like watching a car wreck on the side of the highway, we couldn’t look away. Dan Powell’s former employee drew back his hand holding the margarita and threw the drink in his ex-boss’ face.
“Don’t see that every day.” I commented as Abel approached the table with a bar towel. Dan remained at his table; dripping with tequila. He finished his drink.
