Sometimes a super burrito is not just a super burrito

 My first job was at a Mexican restaurant called Las Piramides in Clarkston, Michigan. Never mind that the bulk of the residents in this Midwestern suburb could not properly pronounce “piramides” in Spanish and had no idea that Mexico has pyramids (Pyramids? Ain’t those in Egypt?”). Never mind that they had the worst salsa in town. Never mind there was no liquor license for decades and thus no margaritas or cervezas with dinner. The locals generally loved it and its delectable foot-long “super burritos” smothered with chili and cheese.

 I started there in as a busgirl in my junior year of high school and worked my way up to waitress. By my first year in college, I was waiting tables three shifts a week and doing kitchen prep two days. With tips, I made great money – about $8 an hour, a king’s ransom for a high school student.

 I hated that job, really.

 Don’t get me wrong: I loved the people I worked with. A good-hearted Mexican couple owned the place, and any number of their nine children worked there at any given time. They encouraged me to do homework and study when the restaurant wasn’t busy.

 Funny aside: The whole time I worked there, I also took Spanish in school, and the first day of my first college intro course, the instructor pulled me aside and said, “What are you doing in my class? Trying to get an easy ‘A’?” I was stunned. She said, “You obviously have a perfect Mexico City accent.” I laughed; I explained; I went on to almost minor in it (one class short), but I’m still not totally fluent, despite my admirable pronunciation.

 Sounds like a perfect setup, but for one thing. It was restaurant work. It was hard labor, and I am not cut out for physical jobs. I got huge calluses on the balls of my feet; I cut myself; I was so fatigued after working 7 at night until 4 or 5 in the morning that I don’t know how I drove home sometimes.
 To this day, I sometimes dream that I’m the only waitress working (which was often the case) and suddenly people enter en masse and sit at 8 or 10 tables and get upset when I cannot wait on them all at once. The panicky feeling, the sense of being overwhelmed, returns as clear as it was yesterday. Every time I entertain the idea of opening my own restaurant or wine bar, I think of those days. The anxiety level rises and the brain kicks into gear: Don’t do it!

 So I can’t imagine a family keeping a restaurant in business for over 35 years, which they have managed to do. The owners’ youngest son took over the restaurant a few years ago after his parents’ health declined. My sister, who still lives in Michigan, told me a while back that the recession hit his business and he was planning to close. I felt sad, like I’d heard about a death in the family.

 It kind of clattered around in the back of my mind for a while, and today it hit me. I’ve had enough death. I lost my dad three years ago and my mom a year ago this month. I lost a sister nearly 20 years ago. I’ve lost friends. That restaurant connected me with a piece of my past, and I just didn’t want to lose another loved one. Yes, I hated the job, but I loved the place and the way that it shaped so much of who I am today.

 I Googled Las Piramides. I called. A young-sounding girl, probably one of the owners’ granddaughters or maybe a local teenager, like I once was, answered. She had no idea how much it meant to me to hear someone pick up that phone. My heart leapt in my chest.

 “Oh, I heard you were closing,” I said. “You’re still in business?” Yes, she replied in a chipper tone. Yes.

 I have never wanted a super burrito worse than this in my whole life.