Adela’s Favorite Restaurants

This morning, I awoke hungry. But, I am often hungry, so this is nothing new. The best way to get me to go some place is to offer me a meal. Why else do you think so many churches offer coffee and donuts after their services?

Long, long ago I was born. Yes, there were cars. No. They did not need to be cranked up to start. The hospital I was born in was Phoenix General Hospital, located at 19 Ave. and Indian School Rd, in Phoenix, Arizona. Late in the last century, it was torn down and replaced by a strip mall.

By sheer irony, the place I have found the best prime rib is not at a Vegas buffet, but at this location. The restaurant: My Mother’s. Not, MY mother. Most likely someone’s mother. But, I have no relation to the restaurant, whatsoever. Except as someone who enjoys good food.

It’s has an old fashioned ambiance, plays crooner music, and everything on the menu is absolutely delicious. Mr. Greene always insists on the especially large Grandfather’s cut of prime rib — grilled. He thinks it’s nearly as good as the prime rib I make, and I don’t have to heat up the house to make it in the summer. Lasagna, pot roast, open faced turkey sandwiches, pizza, huge loaves of my favorite bread they won’t give me the recipe for, and exquisite cream pies.

My Mother's Restaurant

When we lived within the restaurant’s delivery boundaries, we never had to leave the house to go out for a special meal. They even managed to deliver that prime rib.

Now, as I go onto my second favorite restaurant, I will tell you a short story.

Don Jose's 36th Street and Thomas Rd.

A few years ago, I got into a fight with a good friend. To console myself, my plan was to grab some chips and hot sauce from Don Jose’s Mexican Restaurant (located about 36 street and Indian School Rd.). When I saw the fence around it and the For Lease sign, I promptly burst into tears. Then, had to pull to the side of the road to keep from crashing into oncoming traffic, who wouldn’t have been as understanding.

Here it is, three years later, and the restaurant is re-opened. The food tastes the same. The prices are no different. They still play K0Y radio. Even the booth are still slightly awkward to sit in. But, it’s worth it to have enchiladas, chimichangas, huevos rancheros, or much of the usual Tex-Mex flavor that isn’t fancy, experimental, or costs more than prime rib.

It was one of my daddy’s favorite restaurants when he lived in the neighborhood, in 1967, and has become a place my children enjoy, as well. Although, for the life of me, I cannot understand why my daughter still insists on ordering a hamburger and fries in a Mexican restaurant.

While I drool over the thought, I will now just deal with trying to make some caramel coffee. It’s not as good as a chimi or a steak, but maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend it’s a pie from My Mother’s Restaurant.


Gone Fishin’

Every year, about this time, Don Jose’s Mexican Restaurant (located about 36th street and Thomas Rd. in Phoenix, AZ, for those who are curious) would close down for about two weeks. In the window would be a sign that read, “Gone Fishing”.

Now, I couldn’t blame the owner for it. It’s the middle of July, after all. Who wouldn’t want a vacation away from tripping over those idiots who are constantly trying to fry eggs on the sidewalk? I can only hope he was smart enough to go fishing someplace that the fish weren’t jumping out of the water already fried up.

Next time, I will do my first promotion of why it was always a great disappointment to see that sign. But, for now, I will mention: I hate fishing.

It’s true. I did write on my facebook page that I had Gone Fishing last week, but that doesn’t mean I like it. You can only hear, “Shhhh! Be quiet. You don’t want to disturb the fish” so many times before you want to stick your head in the water and yell, “Get over it, Fish!” Of course, that plan doesn’t work very well when you get nasty, fish poop water in your mouth and nose.

The idea of fishing is always attractive. Especially with stories of Huckleberry Finn and the thought of lazing on a raft. Or, the stories of kids playing hooky just to sit under a cool shade tree, while casting a line. You cannot tell me that any kid on earth would keep perfectly still and quiet, so as not to disrupt the thoughts of a fish. Even Jesus Christ, himself, was friends with fishermen. He was smart enough to tell his disciples to leave their nets behind. Which proves even the Son of God didn’t want to waste time sitting around waiting for a fish.

What is so dad-gummed important underwater that fish would be disturbed by the noises us drylanders make, anyhow? How do we know the fish hear us? They don’t even have ears. Are they holding meetings underwater? Is that where all our think tanks come from? The bottom of a lake or riverbed? It would make the most sense. We never actually see anyone involved in these think tanks and they don’t seem to have any ideas that make sense to human beings.

So, for another year, I have fulfilled my obligations. The dust has been dusted and the fish gut smell has been washed out of my hair (I only had to rinse and repeat fifteen times this go round). The rest of the year’s fishing will be done from the cool, air conditioned comfort of my own living room.

Meanwhile, I’ll be eating steak.

Published in: on July 18, 2011 at 3:18 pm  Comments (2)  
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