1998: Having told my British, German, Italian, Portugese, and Czech flatmates that Mexican food is the finest food on the planet and that surely they must try it, we head out that night to what must be the only Mexican restaurant in Edinburgh. It is run by a Spanish family. When giving the waitress his drink order, Dave, unknowing that the Tequila we speak of is meant to be served as shots, asks for “a bottle of Tequila.” I’m pretty sure we talked him out of it. Still, I don’t quite remember the rest of the evening, except: the food was bad, or at least not Mexican; and once we got back to the flat I used the phone in the hallway to call a national park in Costa Rica to find out why a certain girl hadn’t called me first. She wasn’t there, and she didn’t get the message.
2008: I wake up late to find that my wife and son have let me sleep in. In the living room, the kid is playing in his little chair and smiles when he sees me. My wife is making birthday brownies. We open my present, which is both a surprise and what I wanted. Later, we pack up and head off to lunch at a local restaurant specializing in barbecue. I think that barbecue might rival Mexican food for the title of finest food on the planet. The kid falls asleep in his chair and we have one of the first leisurely lunches we’ve had in a long time. The grilled tuna sandwich is incredible.