We sat down at the table in the tiny garden restaurant. I'd been there once and eaten the best mole' of my life, mole' so yummy I wanted to take a bath in it. But then it's location had eluded us for weeks (the location of the restaurant--and the mole' too for that matter.) Just about the time we'd given up searching for it, it appeared. We pulled in, elated, and ducked in under the grass roof where tables made from exotic hardwoods shared space with red and green leafed bushes, colorful bougainvillea, and empty wine bottles hung like those really cool, long African birds nests in the trees. Flowered pottery bowls lined the bar--each filled with something wonderful to stuff in a taco--and the smell of hand made tortillas and wood smoke drifted in from the traditional grill to the left of the bar. A young man in his twenties lifted the covers of each pot and explained to us the different dishes while his father, his long grey pony tail seeming a bit out of
It All Starts with the One in Front of You