January 28, 2022 - “You’re gonna love this restaurant, I guarantee it”, John insisted as we headed for the Mexican border. I was a little apprehensive about crossing over from Brownsville into Mexico and eating lunch. John was insistent that we should do this even though we were on a strictly business trip.
In 1975 I was working for Western Preferred Casualty Company based in Denver, Colorado. Our company specialized in providing credit and life insurance written through credit unions. John was our company representative from San Antonio south to Brownsville, and all points in between. He wanted me to travel with him to contact all our credit unions in his area and assist them with any insurance related problem they might have.
We had worked our way down south to Brownsville on Friday of that week. After meeting with our credit unions John got the bright idea to cross the border and eat at this very special restaurant in Matamoras.
“Can I drink the water there?”, I quizzed John. “Just order a beer, that’s what I do.”, he responded . “But I don’t drink beer. So where does that leave me?”, I wondered out loud. “You should be fine with a glass of iced tea. I’ve had it before”, comforted John. Not a lot of comfort to me.
Suddenly we approached the Mexican crossing border. I felt guilty as the Mexican guards gave us the once-over. “Where you headed?”, he asked in broken English. “Where do you live? Where were you born? Why are you entering Mexico?”, staccato questions came at us. The guard seemed to be satisfied with our answers as he motioned us to continue on our way.
“Boy, the streets sure are narrow and crowded”, I thought out loud. “The restaurant is just over on the next street”, John advised. “We will need to give a couple of Mexican boys a quarter to keep watch on our car”, I was advised by this expert on Mexican culture. “Otherwise something bad might happen to it”, he continued.
We found a parallel parking spot, gave a couple of boys a quarter each, and walked toward a rather large building. “This is it”, John stated. I looked up expecting to see an impressive store front. However, I saw this large sign on the front of a stucco building that read “Sam’s Cafe”. “You got to be kidding, John. Sam’s Café in the middle of Matamoras, Mexico?” John grinned, “You got it. Don’t let the name fool you.”
The menu was in Spanish, of course. Had it not been for the color pictures of the food, I would not have known what to order. John insisted that I order “cabrito”. However, I knew that it was barbequed goat meat and I was strictly a beef and chicken man. I selected enchiladas and a taco. I was on familiar ground with these items.
I was surprised at how different the real Mexican dishes tasted from the usual “Tex-Mex” food in our restaurants. The sauce was much darker, and was somewhat more spicy. All in all, it was a tasty meal.
On the way back to the good old USA John pointed to three orange colored drums stationed on the roadside. “You know what those drums are?”, he questioned me. I had no idea. “Nope, guess not, John. What are they?” He grinned at me, “Those are conscience barrels. It is your last chance to discard any illegal items you may be trying to smuggle over the border. Just toss it into the barrel, no questions asked”, he advised. Somehow I got the idea that he had used them before. “You don’t say”, was all I could muster.
The American guards asked us much the same questions as the Mexican guards. After showing our drivers license and a photo identification, we were allowed to continue on our way, full bellies and all.
That was my first and last visit south of the border. I have had friends over the years who enjoyed going to Mexico. One couple furnished their new home by going to Mexico and purchasing unfinished furniture. His wife was very good at finishing them off, including the upholstering. Another friend would bring us some real Mexican vanilla extract which Clara used in her baking.
Personally in these days I prefer to stay north of the border. South of the border seems to be coming to me.
