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Night 1: El Gavilon
Like a little girl playing jump rope, I wasn't exactly
sure how to hop in. Should I sit with a cold martini,
order seared scallops and mango terrine? It was, indeed,
a dark and stormy night; maybe something warm and spicy
was just the thing. I picked up my buddy Michael S.
and headed to El Gavilon, a Salvadoran joint in Silver
Spring, for papusas and a shot of culinary heat.
You have to know Michael. An astrophysicist at NASA,
he is finely tuned, a basically brilliant guy. He has
looked into the deepest regions of the universe and
can rattle off the names of the farthest precincts known
to science. As a navigator from Chevy Chase Circle to
Silver Spring, however, he stunk. With the rain, the
written instructions from MapQuest (Michael responds
better to schematics, like maps.) and a very intense
male vs. female conversation about perspectives on marital
fidelity, it took us over an hour to reach a place that
was 15 minutes away. No matter. There were turquoise
walls and lights showing through the dripping windows
of El Gavilon, and we were hungry.
We seated ourselves near the TV, which was tuned to
a Spanish drama. There was no audio, but no words were
needed. The place held the promise of every independent,
slightly worn, authentic ethnic restaurant: a magician
in the kitchen, evoking memories of grandma.
Our waiter, Manuel, appeared and, from the menu slap-down
until we left, he was enchanting company. Suave, but
not at all outrageous, he resembled a debonair version
of Little Richard. His trim moustache sat above his
pursed lips; his pompadour was immaculate. We ordered
drinks, sat back and relaxed. As it happens, El Gavilon
is a Salvadoran restaurant because it is owned and staffed
by Salvadorans. Their hearts are still in Salvador,
but their menu is pure Laredo. Although there were papusas,
the choices were the usual fajitas, enchiladas and other
Tex-Mex fare. I wanted something different and, when
a waitress walked by with a platter of sizzling protein
that smelled and looked fantastic, I asked her what
it was. It was special. It was not on the menu.
Even at $24.95, I had to have it. When Manuel cruised
by to take our orders, I mentioned it to him. The special,
of course: Madrecita! The Little Mama! That was
me, by God, and, even better: when I asked him the price,
Manuel said it was $19.95! I liked this place.
When Michael called his beloved while we waited for
our food, Manuel was curious. "It's his girlfriend,"
I whispered. "You're not the girlfriend?"
Manuel comes in close with a wink, "Then maybe
you're the wife?" Man-u-el! "This is America!"
he reminds me, "Everyone is free!"
Once Madrecita is sizzling under my nose, I realize
that its shellfish — two split shrimp and a lobster
tail — have spent more time in the deep freeze
than the briny deep. I knew they would have been frozen,
but I hoped it would have been within the past few months.
The chicken sizzled, but that was all it did. The beef
had a nice satisfying jaw to it, but it tasted of nothing
but salt. The bilious mariachi Muzak and the fine margaritas,
however, made a great backdrop for Manuel. He continued
his lesson when he brought the check. In El Salvador,
he explained, men have wives. They come here to work
and after a while (a shrug) they take another wife.
(Please note: Manuel, a waiter at El Gavilon in Silver
Spring, Maryland does not take part in this practice.)
"We are men!" he announced and looked
at Michael and they shared that laugh. God help us.
His rather fluid concept of domestic relations aside,
I liked Manuel. He was a rascal.
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