Ole

It would be easy to think that in a town like Confluence, an event like Cinco de Mayo would be mostly overlooked. At the very least, it might have some touristy, Americanized interpretation. Mexicans, after all, don't fit neatly into waspy towns like this. They are often relegated to lesser corners, where they cook or clean or tend the yards of wealthier, whiter people. They do not live in the same neighborhoods "we" live in. They do not drive the same kinds of cars, listen to the same kinds of music, or wear the same kinds of clothes.

Yet the Gringos flock to Vaquero's every May 5th, load their chips with gallons of tame salsa, and drink cold Mexican beer served to them with little limes sticking out of their necks. They do this shamelessly, and I do not blame them. Who cannot appreciate a cold Mexican beer with a lime?

The real irony, of course, is that Cinco de Mayo isn't the revered holiday many Americans tend to think it is. Most people in Mexico neglect its passing. Imagine if millions of Mexicans flocked to McDonald's every June 14th to celebrate Flag Day. You get the picture.

It's tough these days to be a Mexican-American. I could talk more about this, but I think true gentlemen don't talk about politics. I'd much rather tell you about how I will celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

It's about the French, you know. How the Mexicans beat the French, who were invading to claim back a debt owed to their country--a military marvel at the time. The United States, which conveniently forgets it owes France very much for winning the Revolutionary War, might have helped our friends to the south get rid of the invaders.

None of this matters to Sergio, who has owned and operated Vaquero's since it opened eleven years ago one block away from the village square. Sergio waits tables, runs the till, and sings as he buses tables in the front. His uncle and mother work the kitchen. Occasionally his wife will stop by to help, but often she is absent from the picture. As best as I can tell, the restaurant is open 362 days a year--closing only for Christmas, New Year's, and July 4.

On a busy day, the three-person staff is easily overwhelmed, but no one seems to mind the wait. At least, no one who understands the value of the food they will sooner or later receive. I have been known to simply walk behind the counter in the back to help myself to another beer or basket of tortilla chips. It is easier, and Sergio does not mind.

But on Cinco de Mayo, I will meet Sergio at his house, a mile outside of town and down in the lowlands near the Tinton River. We will have a very late dinner. We will not eat until 10:30 or 11 at best.

Sergio's wife, Bonita, will have most things ready for Sergio to cook when he comes home after closing the restaurant. The meal is simple:

- Guacamole: diced Avocado, with some lime, diced tomato and onion, and chiles
- Corn tortillas: fresh mesa, pressed flat in an old cast iron press clamped to the counter
- Carne Asada: seasoned meat, onions, cilantro, lime

We will eat together, just Sergio and me. Every year, Sergio will say a prayer in Spanish. I do not know what he says, but in my mind I have a list of things I like to hope he is praying for. We have done this for three years, and it is easily my favorite tradition. He will laugh at how I hiccup impulsively whenever I bite into a grilled Serrano pepper. I will kid him about his shirt--he always wears Hawaiian shirts--and tell him his wife should leave him if he cannot find better clothes to wear. He will tell me to go to hell.

This is our friendship, and this is what we celebrate every year. There are plenty of folks who walk into Vaquero's too afraid to talk to this large, jovial man in a Hawaiian shirt. They simply want to eat their salsa and go home and have nothing to do with him. They cannot speak the language, they think, and they do not know his English is fine. They do not know Sergio was born in America, that his father was born in Texas and worked on a ranch, tending fields that belonged to the prison doctor. They do not know that the songs he sings talk about Old Mexico.

They will never find these things out, and that is fine. Instead, it is only Sergio and I, left to our table of steaming food, our laughter, and our celebration that, at the very least, we aren't speaking French.