Driving
up to Reno from San Francisco in the back of my friend’s Tesla. This car is fascinating. We charged the car over night, put the
bags in the “frunk” and told the car where wanted to go. We’ll need to stop in 210 miles and
recharge. The front has a computer screen dash that must be longer than twenty-four inches in length and twelve inches
wide. There are four of us in the
car and the three of us, who aren't driving all want one now.
Last night I talked everyone into heading down to the
Mission for the best burritos in the world. I got to La Taqueria on Mission around 25th
Street around 8:05PM. “Sorry we’re closed.” OH NO! “Please,
please, please, I’ve come all the way from China.” Somehow, this got the guys attention. I could tell, looking him in they eye
that he was starting to consider serving us. 随遇而安[1] a few more smiles and he gave me one back. Burritos
were off, but he was willing to do some beef tacos and open some beers.
My friend, who lives in San Francisco, mentioned that he
hadn’t been there in twenty-five years.
I used to live up the street and in my humble, this is the best amidst a
very crowded Mission area playing field.
There is something they do with the beef itself that is simply
distinct. A beef taco in one hand
and a Negro Modello in the other, sitting beside the wall mural on the benches
looking out at the iron gate to Mission St. I told the gent who allowed it all to happen he was a
gentleman and gave him a One RenMinBi note for his troubles.
One the way over we’d passed a small bar and I heard live
jazz and of course walked in.
“Five dollar cover” said the small man on a stool. Tacos consumed we headed back in. Turns out the gent on the stool is from
Senegal. I asked him if he spoke
Wolof and he confirmed that he did.
With that I broke out the one, word in the language I remembered form my
trip there in 1992. “Wow.” I can recall being there and seeing
people walking up to one another and regularly saying “wow”, “wow.” Curious about what the excitement was about, I inquired and
the world means “hello.”
Inside we piled into a bench not far from the stage. A tenor player with blond, natty dreads
scaling down to his ankles was blowing through a Horace Silver number. The pianist looked as though he grew
out of the old piano itself. Stand
up bass, an alto and a trumpet, someone on a hollow body Gretsch with a big
sombrero and a young kid on drums.
And as they effortlessly came back to the head of the tune I got my
scotch and let them take us away.
The gent with the dreads called the next tune: Angel
Eyes. My friend didn’t recognize
the song. To me it means the 1959
version by Chet Baker, but everyone’s recorded that tune. I
hadn’t expected to hear any of the words, but then the natty haired tenor player piped
up and sang . . . beautifully.
Learned later he’s managing the place and I wish him and all
the gents involved limitless luck. Get a burrito and head on over and tell em' all "wow."
[1] suíyù'ér'ān: at home wherever one is (idiom); ready
to adapt / flexible / to accept circumstances with good will
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