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Cinco de Mayo . . . er, Der Fünfte Mai



Edith Wild


“So what the heck is a taco, really?” asked Maria, David’s girlfriend.

It was with great fanfare that the owners of the Thuringen Gardens added real honest-to-God tacos to their menu in May of 1634. May 5th, Cinco de Mayo, was to be celebrated with a mariachi band, Mexican food, piñatas, Mexican-style candies, cotton candy and German beer. Of course, the Gardens was packed with anyone in Grantville who was addicted to tacos. This included David Dominic Villareal and company.

“They’re . . . well, they’re just good,” David said. “I’ve missed them, missed them a lot. The fast food kind, that is. Mom does great spaghetti, but her tacos . . . well, never mind. It’s nice to be able to go to a restaurant and order what you want, don’t you think?”

Maria held on to David’s hand. They were the usual party of twelve, David, Maria, some of his friends and their girlfriends. They were normally in the Gardens at least twice a week, often more, drinking beer and eating typical Gardens food. Maria did like sauerkraut and sausages, so why not tacos? David had gotten her to agree to try them, even though she still had her doubts.

“May fifth will be forever different,” David said. “It’s time to celebrate our heritage as Mexican Americans, not just Thanksgiving and Fourth of July.”

The platters of tacos were rolled out and set on the tables. David’s eyes lit up like two roman candles at a fireworks show.

“Tacos! Tacos!” he said. “Look, Maria!”

She did. Hugely layered, with beef, spring greens, baby tomatoes, shredded cheddar cheese, sour cream and hot sauce on tortillas the size of dinner plates.

“Pico de gallo!” David exclaimed. “I sure miss guacamole, though. But you can’t ship in avocados yet.”

David looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. The beer steins, enormous things, were all loaded with a local pilsner. Maria felt aghast at the mound of food and could not for the life of her figure out why David liked the tacos so much. They smelled funny. There was a burning sensation in the air, but no flames. David was sweating profusely and appeared to be in pain but washed it away with more pilsner.

Maria picked at her taco, rolled her eyes and shuddered at the thought of eating anything strange looking. It was not ladylike, nor particularly practical. We had tacos for dinner and I couldn’t eat them, she thought.

The music was another element; it was so different. The mariachi band was really not Mexican but they played the music, fast and sweet and romantic, or so David whispered into her ear. The band was even dressed authentically, in Jalisco costumes, David called them. They wore huge sombreros, and silver-embroidered velvet suits and the band even had a viheula and a guitarron. Maria could see that David recognized all of the men who played so fast and furiously.

David was grinning ear to ear at her like the silly ass he was.

Then he was poking Maria in her side a tad, encouraging her to try the stupid taco. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. No sour cream, she’d stick with that. A little of the beef, perhaps some greens and some cheese. Pico de gallo . . . Maria hesitated. It had tomatoes in it. She was still not sure exactly how she felt about those, either.

Hesitant, Maria lifted the taco to her lips. There were waves and waves of fire emanating from it or seeming to . . . she took one small bite. At first there was not any sensation other than maybe it was really warm in the Gardens. Then the fire hit and Maria gasped, grasped her stein of pilsner and swallowed. She thought that half of the stein’s contents had gone down her throat. She was coughing a bit and sputtering . . . but found herself reaching for more taco.

David was laughing and singing and clapping in time with the mariachi band. Then when the song was over, David, on bended knee, grasped her hand and slid a sparkling diamond ring on her left-hand ring finger . . .“White gold—” she heard him say “—so as not to compete with your beauty.”

David smiled. He got up and slid back into his seat, then picked up his fork and started eating more taco. Another band was playing a song, “The Cherry Tree,” with a hard rhythm, a line of thirty pairs of men and women were on the dance floor dancing the Seguidilla . . .

Maria thought, Oh my God. I’m going to get married!

There was so much going on at the same moment. Stein after stein was filled with beer. One group of men was trying to sing “Eine Prosit” to the mariachi band’s tunes. Two down-timer men in their group still didn’t want more than a bite of taco; their faces said “no way ever again.” It was one thing to bite your food; it was another to have it bite back.

Arthur Esslies had actually spat it out and had stomped out of the Gardens and was chased after by another down-timer, Felix Brandt, who yelled, “Coward! It is good food! You dolt!”

The whole building was almost vibrating with music and dancing and singing.

A whole bunch of construction folk wandered in wanting the usual meal. They were rapidly converted to the idea that tacos were king. Then it was time for the piñatas to be beaten open and for the karaoke contest to begin. So the DJ set up and a contest got going. There was more beer and flan for dessert.

Maria thought, I have a fiancé. She looked at David intently: handsome, smart and silly and up-timer. “Do you want to dance, darling?”

He smiled. “Why not, babe?”

Conversion to American ways and food was an interesting process, Maria decided. She looked at her ring again. Maybe it was a step in the right direction.

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