the people who lunch

Elaine Stritch was not there.


No throaty celebration of the ladies who lunch.


But we were well beyond the ladies only lunch club.


My former landlady (Karen) called to let me know one of my readers was in town and wanted to meet me.


I am certainly no J. D. Salinger (in many respects -- one of which is I am still alive).  No shrinking violet I.  In fact, I am as shameless about being the center of attention as my former state's senior senator, who is known to shove constituents out of the way to get to the nearest news camera.


Karen asked if I would be interested in a late lunch on Sunday.  Let's see?  Fans.  Food.  Of course, I would be there.


When I showed up at Tinto del Mar, I was looking for two lunching ladies at a table.  And, even though I was fashionably late, I saw only tables of large groups.


It turned out one of the large groups was Karen's.  She was there with six other people.


We could easily have been the cast for a Merchant-Ivory film.  A Canadian couple, Don and Irene, renting The Professor's house.  Myrella, my reader, from Houston.  Daniel and Fabiola, friends of Karen's from Guadalajara.  Another friend, Verona, from Seattle.


Myrella and I once had an online conversation about beach property she owns in Oregon.  But we rambled over as many topics as any good friends do when meeting.


And she was a pure joy.  Having read of my often fruitless quests to find aged parmesan cheese, she brought me a chunk.  Along with a dog book she highly recommended: The Gospel According to Sam: Animal Stories for the Soul.


I continue to be amazed (and pleased) at the kindness of people.


The choice of Tinto del Mar was a good one.  The dining room was underpopulated.  And, once the usual mariachi band stopped playing, we were able to have great conversation.


The service is always very personable -- and, quite often, personal.  Even if the food is a bit too heavy for me with its thick cheesy, fruit-infused sauces.  Not really bad.  But certainly not outstanding.


It is a testament to the place that its food does get in the way of having a good time.


I put a bit of a damper on the afternoon when the conversation turned to the drug violence in Michoacán.  I conceded that anywhere in the world where people are being shot -- especially over an ill-conceived drug policy -- is a shame.  But there is statistically a greater chance of any given person dying in a car crash than being shot by a drug gangster in Mexico.


The Mexican couple took great umbrage.  And I suspect a lot of it was my rotten Spanish getting in the way. 


But I understand their concern.  Some Mexicans are far more likely to be kidnapped and shot than is an American expatriate.  And numbers do not assuage that fear.  Fear always trumps reality.


My heart sank as I listened to them.  If this very joyful couple can descend into such dramatic fears, what does that say about the future of democratic Mexico?  Those who fear are always the first fruits of demagogues.


Mexican history provides two answers: a man on a white horse -- or another on a red burro.  And there is always someone in the wings willing to cross-dress as either Porfirio Diaz or Lázaro Cárdenas.

But that is not my fight.  And my concern quickly passed.  After all, the lunch was to celebrate life, not to sink into life-sucking politics.  And we had our share of fun and silliness.


So, thank you again, Myrella, for the cheese and the book.  I grated a portion of the cheese over some lemon soup I made last night.


And keep those comments coming.


Note -- The last photograph is not of Myrella.  That is Karen.  And there is an interesting story about that ice cube.  But that may be for another day.