I used to haul recycling from Boulder to Denver, when that was a romantic way to spend time. Big trucks, a lot of junk, and the radio blasting. Whether riding shotgun or driving, I always looked forward to lunch at Little Mexico. The most exotic food we ever had in Minnesota was Pizza or Pronto Pups. I didn’t really understand the food at Little Mexico – tamales, burritos, chimichangas – but I loved the music that echoed out of that funky diner.
Me vas a olvidar Valerio Longoria
I would never have gone there on my own, but my buddy, an older guy with a mustache and a thirst for Old Milwaukee, felt right at home and we visited every time we made the run. It was full of guys who really worked for a living. I was an impostor, who went to college. They knew about beer, food, and knew that neither could do you any good without music.
The music they listened to lightened their load. It kept them going. It matched their outlook on the world. The songs were polkas, cumbias, rancheras, corridos, and waltzes that spoke of true love, dancing, disappointment, drinking, and happiness. The beat was infectious. The harmonies were homemade. That music helped me understand just how different and how similar we all are.
Mi unico camino Conjunto Bernal
Mi Corazón, Mal Hombre, Tequila – it all came together for me at Little Mexico.