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 http://www.mymothersrestaurant.com

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.

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747s and Radios


You ever have one of those nights? It’s a beautiful evening. The stars are twinkling, while the soft breezes blow. You’re on your first date with the most beautiful creature ever to walk the earth.. You have picked out the most wonderful restaurant. You smile at each other from across the table. Just as you open your mouth to say something truly clever, the old coots at the table across the room start hootin’ and hollerin’. For the rest of the night, all you can hear is the volume getting louder and louder, as the hens at the table cackle at every bad punchline.

Believe me, I have been there, heard the sounds of banshees shrieking, and let out my own sighs as I looked around and realized I was at THAT table. Come to think of it, I live in that community. Some nights I would love to turn my hearing aid down. Problem is, I don’t wear one.

 Now, I am far from quiet. My friends have asked me many times if I could stop yapping for just a little while. Or, at least take a five minute breath between thoughts. What I lack in my little community is stage presence. Even a blaring radio comes across as tiny and insignificant next to the roar of a 747.

 I am sure there are many of you who live among 747s. The people who wonder why you’re so quiet and keep passing you their drinks, in hopes of making you the life of the party, too. Only problem is, I am more likely to take a long nap after a good alcohol binge, rather than dance on tables and form a conga line on the bar.

 Truly quiet people make me just as uncomfortable as loud and obnoxious people. The neighbor you try to wave a friendly “hello” to or engage in conversation, but they always look at you as if you aren’t there until the day hear about them on the local news. “He was always so quiet. We really didn’t know why the mailmen kept disappearing when they passed his house.” No wonder we have a new mailman on the route every week.

 Sometimes, the conversation in the neighborhood will turn to something more exciting than how to add that extra happy sparkle to indoor plumbing. Maybe Mr. Life-of-the-Party might show up and remind us of his best tanning techniques from 1967. When that happens we all have our own ideas we would like to add, I will look around and see half a dozen people making faces like drowning goldfish, as they wait for that moment when they can politely jump in and add something just as enlightening. By the time the monologue has finished, everyone has forgotten what the topic was about. Or, if we need to clap or not.

 There was about a page and a half worth of thoughts on this. But, a couple of 747s just landed and asked me to lead the conga line, this time. I was given a couple of mojitos, first, so let’s hope I don’t fall asleep.

 Until, next time….when we explore, why fedoras and uniforms make men foxy.

Published in: on April 25, 2011 at 3:33 pm  Leave a Comment  
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