Spencer Moseley

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 e...

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 w...