Puebla's Mexican Kitchen

The parking lot was full, so I parked side street, hoping I was in a no-tow zone. It was in front of someone's house, not blocking the driveway, and I say this hoping my readers side with me. 

Puebla's Mexican Kitchen, I read aloud in my car as I evaluated several spots on Google Maps. I saw they had chilaquiles and "jugos naturales," so I wanted to try them. My regular Mexican food spots were far (or further) from my work site, so I opted to try this new place. 

I ensured I had my AirPods to rock out to my Ken Follett audiobook and walked through the entrance. A punk-rock-looking Mexican with gelled hair and a rough-shaven face motioned me to approach the front counter. I hoped I wasn't cutting other people in line since there was a small group crowding the front, but now that I think about it, this anxiety was not warranted—or else he wouldn't have called me. 

He asked if I was alone, and I nodded quickly. Then he raised his eyebrows and pointed toward the entrance, saying, "If you want to sit outside?"

I have this thing where, when I feel anxious, I take a minute to process basic shit. I took about two seconds (it felt long) to respond and said, "Yes, yes, sorry," adding a "sorry" to mitigate any negative effects he may have felt from that two-second delay. 

I waited a second in case he felt the need to walk me out. He did not and had already called someone else. I ducked my head slightly, like a monk, and walked outside. A pretty girl was sitting at a table outside, facing the street, so I made sure that when I sat down at my table, I, too, faced the street. I could have sat on the other side of the table, where I would have faced her, but I decided that would feel uncomfortable. 

The same guy who greeted me at the front came outside and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. As always, I had checked the menu before entering the restaurant and knew everything I would order already: "A water and a cinnamon coffee," I said. 

He nodded quickly and walked away. I plugged in my AirPods and listened. I rested an arm on the metal fence separating the outdoor seating area from the parking lot. It was cloudy and muggy, just as a spring day in Houston should be. 

Before long, my drinks arrived, and he asked if I was ready to order. 

"Chilaquiles verdes," I said. 

"Eggs?"

"Yes, over medium."

"Would you like any avocado or potatoes on top?"

"No," I said immediately. I reflected as he left that if I had taken time to think, I probably would have agreed to both of those extra toppings. I had not wanted to make my waiter wait. 

The chilaquiles were lovely, speckled with a light dusting of queso fresco. The green salsa was limey as fuck with very little spiciness, and two over-medium eggs sat on top. The chips were nice and soggy but maintained a slight crunchiness since they were not drenched in the green salsa, which I liked. 

On the side was the perfect accompaniment: refried pinto beans. 

I devoured this meal, paid, tipped well, and enjoyed a long 10 minutes after—sipping my coffee like a Spanish conquistador. 

I basked in the unclean Houston air, satisfied.