Mi Pueblito Restaurant

I craved a Colombian breakfast: two fried eggs, black refried beans, some protein, and a coffee. 

I had been to Mi Pueblito before and knew I had to return. It was near the dumpy part of town (Gessner and Richmond). All the restaurants around here were good. 

I parked in the strip mall. Mi Pueblito sat couched between some chicken restaurant and a nail salon. I panicked briefly since I had not reviewed the menu in my car with the AC. I hate making waiters wait after they ask me what I want—though their job title suggests this is what they do. As I reviewed the menu, I started to sweat. Houston is fucking hot, and Mi Pueblito has a large menu. Finally, I decided to order their iced coffee and the "Calentado con Carne".

I walked through the entrance wearing my striped polo (untucked) and khakis. Maybe I imagined it, but the hostess and a waitress appeared to exchange a look that said, "he's cute." As my hostess walked me to my seat, I questioned if my perception was accurate or if I was just vain. 

I'm always anxious that I look like a pervert when I go to public places by myself, so I started to fidget in my seat. The solution presented itself as I felt the bulge of my AirPods in my left pocket. I opened my phone and played my audiobook. My fidgeting stopped. I imagined I looked less pervy when I was occupied. 

The waitress came to my table after I had reviewed the menu (she gave me a blessed five minutes for my analytical mind to do more work), and I changed my mind from iced coffee to their iced mango drink blended with milk. "Mango con Leche por favor," I said. 

"blah blah blah," she said. She spoke Spanish with a delicacy and speed I could not translate, and I nodded my head and smiled, hoping she had said, "Okay, I will bring it out shortly." I was grateful I didn't have to hit her with a "no hablo mucho español," but I think she could tell.

The drink came out swiftly, and I cherished the sweetness and mango fruitiness. A tropical, icy drink was perfect on this hot day. I decided to place my order as soon as she put my drink down: "Calentado con Carne por favor."

"Revueltos o fritos," I think she said. 

I took some time to translate: scrambled or fried eggs.

"Fritos," I said. "Medio (medium)."

She said many things that I nodded my head to, and fortunately, none of those things were questions. My tension dissipated, and I waited about 15 minutes for my food. Ken Follet's audiobook, World Without End, kept my full attention during my wait and my social anxiety at bay. 

The food arrived: two fried eggs, pork belly, sausage, steak, a corn patty, two plantains, and, to my chagrin, rice mixed with red beans. So, no black beans. I sighed but realized I had forgotten my last visit's bean situation. 

But I took one bite, and mindfulness came effortlessly. That rich, chewy bulk of the pork belly, in contrast with its charred, molar-breaking backside lit up my mouth like Chinese fireworks. I had slathered the whole meal in their complementary chunky salsa full of mostly green peppers, and it added an acidic, vegetal punch. The steak was pretty mid, but that's because I prefer steak that is not cooked all the way through. Their fried eggs were over easy, not "medio," but I was glad for this spotlight on these runny yolks.

I spent the rest of the meal creating perfect bites: a small bit of protein, some rice and beans, egg yolk, and salsa. BOOM. HEAVEN.

I ATE EVERYTHING. I could not even justify my overeating on a heavy workday. I had worked very little. 

The waitress saw my empty plate and asked if I wanted a small coffee to wrap things up. 

Why yes, I would, I thought (and also said). 

She brought the coffee in a small espresso cup with cream and sugar, and I sipped it, imagining I was some rich Italian overlooking the Mediterranean Sea with my wife. We were both old in this picture, but she still had that spark in her eye, and we could still dance and enjoy things like fine wine or a simple coffee in the morning. 

I left the restaurant beyond satisfied.