Tim's Favorite Blogs
Media Matters
Blog Directories
Sunday, August 23. 2009
Only in California
Had one of those “Only in California” experiences Saturday. My buddy (and walking companion) John and I were driving around Poway running a few errands. On the way home we planned on stopping at Costco to pick up one of their gynormous pizza pies for $10.95 plus tax.As far as pizza goes, that’s the best deal anywhere and while other pizza purveyors might offer tastier pies, for the price, the quality can’t be beat! If you can drive to your local Costco, why spend more for Dominoes or Pizza Hut? Get the everything pizza and walk away from the window having spent less than $12.00 for a pizza big enough to feed three guys like me … or six people with healthy eating habits.
That was the plan. We parked by the Chase Bank and the CVS Pharmacy at the corner of Poway and Pomerado Roads so I could do some banking (that branch stays open until 4 p.m. on Saturdays!) and John could get cheap smokes at the pharmacy.
As it turns out, next to the pharmacy was a pizzeria, a small little family joint, the kind of place that makes you think, “hmm, they probably put a lot of love into their food.”
Well, maybe they do, maybe they don’t. What was most noticeably interesting about this place was the name: Rosario’s. Okay, an Italian restaurant with a Spanish name. What the Hell, we’re a 30 minute ride up the freeway from Mexico so why not? John decided to order a pie with the same ingredients we would get had we ordered from Costco.
Much to his (and my) surprise, the proprietors of this fine establishment are Chinese immigrants. And they speak excellent English! No shit.
Only in California can you find an Italian restaurant with a Spanish name owned and operated by Chinese immigrants. God bless America! Or at least California.
So we got our pie with all the ingredients, went home and munched away. Yes, it was better than any of the chains and dare I say, better than a Costco pizza. Somewhat more expensive, but it tasted good.
Interestingly enough, my brother Carl and I would often go to Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico, to gamble on the dogs and Jai Alai, buy Cuban cigars and eat some of the finest Chinese food this side of the wide blue Pacific.
“Really,” you ask? Indeed! We have plenty of Asian restaurants in and around San Diego, some of them quite good, especially if you’re into Thai, Vietnamese or Indian food, but for balls out great Chinese food it’s best to go South of the Border. No shit.
Of course in Mexico you’ll find authentic taco street venders that make these devastatingly delicious taquitos … aye-yi-yi … and they save the fatty juice from it all, whip it up with beef broth, fill it with some hot sauce, chopped onions and cilantro … there’s a reason I’ve had two heart attacks and quadruple bypass heart surgery.
But in Mexico you’ll find the best Chinese restaurants south of the Los Angeles County line. The ones Carl and I visited were owned and operated by Chinese immigrants who spoke excellent Spanish and English, but what the Hell, it was funny going to Mexico for Chinese food.
Not too long ago I lived close to a lower income Hispanic neighborhood and when I would get off the bus, the Trusty Trek in hand, I’d often stop at one of the little tiendas del taco and for a couple bucks get some rolled taquitos and scorching hot salsa. In these places you could communicate in English, but I used it as an opportunity to expand my Spanish.
Now, many of my anti-immigrant friends might yell, “This is America! When I order food ‘they’ should talk to me in American!” Well, that xenophobia aside, in this part of the country, or at least that part of San Diego, it’s best to know even just a smattering of Spanish. And what the Hell, it’s fun and empowering to order food in a foreign language.
My old friend Alfredo was teaching me Spanish, mainly how to call someone an asshole: “¡pendejo!”
I’ve never actually used it with sincerity. That could be dangerous.
Another one you don’t want to use unless you’re ready to fight is ”Usted cucaracha chingada madre.” You can just figure out what that means.
“Numero cuatro por favor,” I’d say.
“¿Algo beber?”
“Si. Diet Coke.”
There really is no translation that I know of for Diet Coke or Coca-Cola in general. When you get a bottle or can of Coke in Mexico, all the writing on the container is in Spanish, except for the name.
Now, I wasn’t fooling anyone in these little shops. They all knew I was some gringo with a limited command of the Spanish language, but they were always kind to tolerate my stumbling with their language. Most likely they had a good laugh once I left the place, taquitos in hand, feliz como é almeja.
But, if you stop at the same places often enough they get to know you and smile when you walk through the doors: “¡Hola! ¿Como esta?”
“¡Buonos!”
It’s always baffled me why some people are so insistent only English — excuse me, American — should be spoken here. Learning a second or third language enriches our lives and being able to communicate in a language not our own connects us to others at a much higher level than we could imagine.
Yes, I like San Diego with its rich mélange of cultures. We have great seafood served in a variety of ethnic flavors — including American — plus ethnic restaurants of every nationality. Down the street from me on the corner of Mira Mesa and Scripps Ranch Boulevards there is an Afghan restaurant. I’ve never been but I imagine the ka-bobs are splendid.
Only in California can you find an Italian restaurant with a Spanish name owned and operated by Chinese immigrants. God bless California!
Calendar
Quicksearch
Categories
AD Links
Referrals
Syndicate This Blog
Blog Administration
Powered by
TheForkesReport