….I’ve been here for years, 51 as flesh and sangre, 4 as ones and zeros and pixels, if you’re rocking mad STEM. I’d like to say I don’t but I just did.
Enough of the wackness from the pastness. Let’s head down to the field for an in-def interview with myself:
Yo: Buenas dias senor gring@. Muchas “Garcias” (pinche Google docs spell-check) for taking time out of your post-Chicago/Trump depression to meet with me.
Me: Two words: Rick. Bayless.
Yo: Uh que?
Me: That’s the pregunta you were going to open with, verdad? “Why come out of la jubilacion temprano en Florida ahora?”
Yo: Actually, I already knew the answer. Yo soy yo, dontcha know?
Me: The Mickey Mouse of Mexican food launched a comideria en Disneyland.
Yo: Disney Springs if you’re fact checking.
Me: I say “Super Big Gulp” you say “Venti”. Same diff.
Yo: You, I mean we, don’t plan on eating there, so why make a stink.
Me: I’m, we’re, not. Por favor, Senor Bayless, let Disney be your Magic Kingdom just as it is Wolfgang Puck’s and George Lucas’s: All-Stars in the relentless slinging of globally branded authentic ver·i·si·mil·i·tude.
Me: Que? Too critical.
Yo: Nada. Too many syllables. Mi cabeza hacer dano.
Me: So what? Yo, er we, IFLAG propose to provide, affordable, authentic FlaMex cusine as an alternative to alt-Mexican food? (Even though FlaMex sounds more like a nasal spray than manna from El Dio.) Anything, but anything edible, as an alternative to what the Orlando Sentinel food critic referred to as the “safe offerings for the kids” when plugging R-Bay’s Disney colonization.
Sidebar: As a parent I indeed recognize why a food reviewer – it’s anything but critical – might feel obligated to provide security clearance for the tots lenguas, yet as a wannabe Mexican American I can’t help but take offense at the furthering of the stereotype that Mexico and all things in Mexican are “unsafe” or worse, what I suspect she was getting at: “spicy”. As if chile peppers are public enemy numero uno from South of the Border Wall. (Dedos crossed scribe simply a victim of pressure from a press-release/publicist and/or litigious editor)
Yo: Despasio tu corazon smarty pantalones. Deep breaths. Count to dias . Now, just how many FlaMex meals have you eaten since the Fla relocation project?
Me: Hmmmm, gummy tacos al pastor (on corn tortillas more soggy beer coaster than masa fresca – ho hum) @ Red Mesa in St. Petersburg and a prison cafeteria quality green chile chicken fried chicken plata swimming in the jack cheeses aka Texan queso aka IMO Play-doh @ Chuy’s en Winter Park, asi-asi Oaxcan tamales con transcendent salsa en Fort Myers y the usual burros, nachos, and enchiladas en mi casa made with mostly Trader Jose’s products. Por que?
Yo: So then why not let he who judge throw the first tostone.
Me: Primero what?
Yo: Think Goya productos en la cocineria. Think Lee “Scratch” Perry’s roast fish and corn bread. Think Fidel Castro’s version of the Chicago Hot Dog: the Cuban Sandwich. Time has come for us, I mean, yo, er me to embrace comida del sur y centro y islas del los Americanos.
Me: With time cut out por platas like this here chipotle cheddar shrimp grits, con huevo?
Dixiecan platas y comics del todos los Americanos.
Me: Strategy for moving on sin arousing ChiAzMex PTSD?
Yo: For uno: repeal and replace The Great Chicago Hot Dog Database
Me: I guess I have sort of binge/stress inhaled more than a couple of those, con the ayudar of El Nino Dos.
Yo: Get dizzy on Jamaican beef patties y coca bread, Trinidadian roti and literature, Colombian cumbia y empanadas, Brazilian futbol and feijoada, (you’ve already touched on mucho musica y desportes) and find time and ingredients por cooking up the Dixiecan dishes not of your youth. Mira: el futuro is to be not eating you.
Me: Gracias yo.
Yo; De nada mi.