La Roca Restaurant and Bar

This is the first of a series of pieces I wrote, reflecting on my time at the Conference “Common Ground on the Border” and in southern Arizona.

Visiting a nice restaurant seemed a strange way to end the Nogales field trip to visit migrants, asylum seekers and deportees in Mexico. Sure, it was past lunch time and I was hungry. Maybe a taco stand would have been more appropriate. But La Roca Restaurant and Bar it was.

The place got its name from the rock grotto that forms one side of the dining room. The carved stone arched up to a high ceiling where massive wooden joists held up the roof. Night blue walls cast the room a somber light, and dark amber woodwork of the doors and windows further added to an ambiance of history that probably never happened.

“This would be a great setting for a movie scene,” I said to Mori.

“What kind of scene?” Mori said. She’s someone who is this detail oriented. “A big dinner scene with a scandal, or a small scene at that little table by the window, like a couple breaking up?”

“Either.”

The staff had already shoved three large tables into place to form a banquet style seating arrangement. They must be used to big groups like ours dropping in, everything was set up. Still, us settling in at the table upped the sound level in the room by several decibels.

The four waiters expecting us looked like they’d been transplanted from a different time. They were older, wore white smocks, black trousers and black bowties. They didn’t say, “Hi, my name is Juan, I’ll be your waiter today.”

One waiter seemed in charge. He was taller than the others. Also, he took the food orders, the real give away. A little older than the other waiters, he had a widows peak and short cropped graying hair. His face bore the expression of a consummate professional, a mask of solicitous concern. His first job was to answer questions.

“What’s mochomos?”

“It’s shredded meat, crisp fried.”

“Beef?“

“Yes.”

“Does it come with anything?”

“Tortillas.”

He explained a lot, all with an air of forbearance as if detailing the menu to gringos was his cross to bear.

When he reached me, he said, “And for you, Sir?” I ordered chicken mole, my standard order when it’s available. He said, “Thank you.”

What was going on behind that mask? How did he feel about white folks coming to see migrants? Was his stance on border politics similar to ours? Was he married, with kids? Did he worry about how bad things might get? Did he migrate here from elsewhere? Maybe he’d been deported once himself.

His face remained inscrutable.

The second time he spoke to me, he said, “Chicken mole?” I said, “Si.” He placed the plate before me and hurried away. A busy man. The next order was ready to be served. No time to answer my idle questions.