Volé

The busser and I began to stack all the patio tables for closing. It was a slow night, but at least we could get the patio all locked up before the inside closes. A man in an olive green polo shirt and his wife paced back and forth uneasily along the side walk outside the gate. Did they want to come in to the restaurant? Look at the menu? Are they waiting for some one late to arrive? The nervous couple carried this on for another few minutes until the man, gaining enough courage, walked into the patio and asked me, “What is the phone number for the police?”

I was a bit confused by the question, but an emergency is an emergency. “Normally you just call 911. If you just wanted to call a police station there’s another number I don’t know but...” I stopped. His look of distress was unchanged. I didn’t say anything he was obviously looking for, so I’ll let him continue. He pursed his lips, and after a short pause, he did.

“Wh..What is your crime rate like around here?” He had a bit of a Mexican-Spanish accent. It wasn’t thick, but he didn’t grow up in the US. Needless to say, I was a bit surprised by the inquiry, but it’s a safe area. It may be slightly run down next to here, but this is downtown San Jose. We make airport terminals look like slums. Locking up our patio furniture entails wrapping a 3/4 cm cable around them a few times, which is so loosely done that we often take the patio furniture out with out even unlocking the padlock, and guarding it behind a 2’8” fence. Our downtown is the Canada of California.

“Our crime rate is very, very low,” I respond. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s safe at any hour,” and being 8:00pm in the middle of the summer with the sun still an hour from crepuscule, it was definitely one of those “any” hours.

“Well, I, umm, I need to call the police. There are some men doing something to my car.”

I glanced over to where they had been nervously watching. “You parked across the street?”

“Yes, right over there,” he nervously gestures. I began walking over to get a look, and he hurriedly tried to convince me otherwise, “No no! You’ll scare them away!” Wasn’t that the point? I ignored him and walked out our other gate to get a better look and had to restrain myself from laughing.

When someone comes to you for help, even if it turns out to be the silliest thing imaginable, they still came to you for help. They put an amount of trust in you, and it’s a trust I don’t like to violate. I’d like to preserve some sense of honor for myself, but then again, my sides were already starting to cramp from holding the laughter in by the time I walked back to him.

“Three of them?”

“Uh..yes.”

“Wearing baseball caps?”

“Yes!”

I knew the three: the lamb with a side of salad, the honey orange chicken with fries, and the prawn and beef stir fry. I just finished serving their table. It was the manager’s seventeen year old brother and his two friends slowly getting into their car- their car mind you, parked next to this paranoid guy’s Mercedes. They didn’t look all that threatening. Granted they were in your standard ultra-baggy sports attire, and the two not driving were a bit tipsy from the silverbacks I just poured them, the three were behaving quite well even if that behavior was not walking in a straight line.

I explained this to the guy- four times. He didn’t quite listen. After his third, “Are you sure you know them?” I sent the man on his way in my most concerned voice as possible. I went up to tell the manager, and the guy was still at the sidewalk watching his car nervously. Generally in north costal San Diego, where I’m from, anyone with skin darker than what a Northern European would get at a nice day at the beach would be considered a possible car thief. It’s a comfort to know that everywhere has paranoid rich guilty of faulty profiling.

And for your drink of the month:

The Silverback!

-In a wide pint glass, fill it up 1/2 way with red bull or another energy drink banned in    Canada and most of Western Europe.

-Add 1/2 a shot of Hypnotiq (a teal colored fruity liqueur) (optional)

-On the side, fill a shot glass with Bacardi 151 (that is 151 proof, or 75.5% alcohol)

-Light the shot on fire, drop it in the pint, and chug.

It’s your perfect drink for seventeen year old hoodlums. It’s like an Irish car bomb, with and emphasis on the car bomb part. Of course, I assume you can always float the 151 on some Bailey’s and just light it for a better Irish car bomb. I’ll have to try one of those at work.