On Sunday, my family of five did what we usually do on Sundays after church: We went out to lunch at Mazatlan Mexican restaurant.
It’s fast, it’s inexpensive, the food is pretty good and we feel like regulars there. It’s usually the only meal we all eat out together, and we rarely stray from the plan.
Once in a blue moon we might get chicken from Church’s, but Mazatlan is our go-to place on Sundays.
Except for last Sunday.
On last Sunday, I decided we should try a new place, the Cinco de Mayo place in Merchant’s Walk, located in what once housed Pargo’s restaurant, for you long-timers.
As usual, it took some convincing.
“But we like Mazatlan,” my 6-year-old protested.
Then the twin eighth-graders joined the protests.
“Yeah, we like it. We know the place. They know us. We even know what number to order without looking at the menu,” they added.
Then I found myself having one of those conversations in which I’m saying the most ridiculous things just to get my kids to see how narrow-minded they’re being.
“But what if we go to Cinco de Mayo and it’s the best Mexican food you’ve ever had?” I asked.
Of course, one twin is an expert in logic.
“What if we go and it’s the worst Mexican food we ever had?” he asked.
“But what if it’s not?” I retorted, like the mature person that I am. “You won’t know unless you try it. And if it is, we won’t ever go back.”
So we went. As we compared and contrasted the salsa and the atmosphere, Henry said, “I feel like we’re cheating on Mazatlan.” I rushed to our defense.
“We’re allowed to try new places,” I said. “It’s the American way.”
“Yeah, freedom of choice,” Owen said.
The result was a split decision: One son and I liked the new place a lot, especially the gravy they serve on their enchiladas instead of rojo sauce. My husband, of course, liked both. The other two sons still liked Mazatlan.
The truth is that Mazatlan had become “our place.”
So this past week, we headed back there for our Sunday meal. But we all slinked in.
When the host seated us in one of the round corner booths, we all looked at each other and giggled.
“Why do I feel guilty?” my husband asked. “It’s like they know we cheated and went somewhere else last week.”
“I know,” I said, diving into the chips and salsa. “Just act normal.”
So the waiter came out, we ordered a No. 2, a No. 12, beef fajitas, a tostaguac and a kids’ beef burrito with queso, as usual.
The guy we call Cowboy, who always wears a flat-top haircut and plaid shirt, brought out four platters on one arm, as usual.
We ate and talked and laughed and looked each other in the face, catching up on each others’ lives, as usual.
Then we piled back into the truck to head for home. The boys, who were on a post-lunch high, bickered until I had to yell at them to calm down, as usual.
It’s not brunch at Tavern on the Green, but straying helped my family realize that we kind of prefer “the usual.”
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