Disclaimer:
Most of the food descriptions in this chapter have been shamelessly lifted from the online menu of Chevy's Fresh Mex. So sue me . . . Wait, don't!
They had more hope than luck, but they persisted anyway. Ted made a few unhappy noises about the paperwork he should have been working on, but without conviction; roasting on the New York City streets beat bankruptcy forms any day. Booster was simply too stubborn to admit defeat. Still, after their third visit to the place where he thought the restaurant should be, he reluctantly admitted that maybe going back to the embassy for a phone book wasn't a bad idea.
They were just about to turn the corner to reach HQ when Booster stopped so suddenly that Ted ran into him.
"Aw man . . ."
Ted took a step back and turned to see what Booster was looking at. Across the street stood a building wearing a fresh but rather horrible shade of green paint, occasionally interrupted by pseudo-Pueblo designs stenciled in yellow and red. Someone had started adding "thatching" to the sloping overhang, but had left off about two-thirds of the way through. A neon sign proclaimed the building to be "La Cucina" in large, blinking letters.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. I told you we should've taken a left when we left the embassy!"
"You didn't; you said to go straight for a block and THEN take a left," Booster corrected. "Anyway, at least we found it, right?"
"Such as it is . . ." Ted gave the restaurant a doubtful look. It cheerfully blinked its name at him.
"I know it doesn't look like much, but that's part of its charm, Beetle. It's like people who make their furniture out of old tires and things. It destroys your preconceived notions of what it should be so you enjoy it that much more, get it?"
"Do you get it?"
"No," Booster said. "But I hear the food is great!"
"Oh Lord . . . well, let's go check it out."
They pushed through the glass-paned doors and walked towards the young man sorting receipts at the wooden desk directly in front of the doorway. He smiled at them as they stepped up.
"Hello, what can I do for you gentlemen?"
"Uh? Oh. Table for two, please." Booster's gaze flicked over the decor again. Random bits of paraphernalia hung on the wooden beams stretching overhead, from an old tandem bicycle to a pair of shoes to something that looked vaguely like a metal soccer ball that had been attacked by a swarm of corkscrews. "Interesting place you've got here."
The young man pulled out two menus and gestured for the heroes to follow as he declared proudly, "There's nowhere else like it!"
"God, I hope not!" Ted whispered fervently.
"I like it!" Booster said. "It's different."
"Different is definitely the word," Ted returned as they were ushered into a booth dominated by a large oil painting of dignified man with a grimace that suggested a bad case of constipation. The painfully ill-chosen color scheme set it aside from the average mediocre portrait piece. As if that weren't enough, someone had glued buttons all over the artwork . . .
"Where do you find this stuff?" Ted asked the young employee, who had just assured them that their server would be with them in a minute.
"Oh, you know . . . thrift stores, garage sales, that kinda place. And we try to spruce it up if it's too mundane. See that?" He pointed to the painting and said proudly, "The buttons were my idea."
"Mm-hm. Very, um, creative." Ted waited until the youth had left, then shook his head. "Kids these days . . . So what are you looking at, Booster?"
Booster grinned as he peered over the edge of his menu. "Flan!"
"You're on the desserts already? Geez, don't waste any time, do you?"
"Hey, life is short. Enjoy the good stuff while you can," Booster said, marking the dessert section with a finger while he flipped back to view the entrees. "Ohhhh, shrimp fajitas . . ."
"Mmmmm, double-cheese enchiladas . . ."
"Check out the appetizers! Mozzarella cheese sticks? We don't have THOSE in the 25th century!"
"No wonder you left . . . The stuffed jalapenos look good too."
"Onion rings . . . mmmm . . . Oh, thanks," Booster added without looking up as their waiter put a basket of complimentary nachos on the table. "Coca-Cola," he said without waiting to be asked.
"Pepsi," Ted Kord said.
"And the debate rages on," said Booster as their server dutifully left to fetch their beverages.
"Tastes great."
"Less filling."
"Hmmm . . ." They both leaned over their respective menus, engrossed.
"Those mozzarella sticks sound REALLY good," Booster said after several minutes of zen-like contemplation.
"So get them." Ted turned a heavily laminated page as he mentally wrestled with the pros and cons of fajitas versus enchiladas.
"You really think I should?"
"Sure. They're your arteries."
"Hey, I'd share."
"Even better. We can book the same ambulance and split the costs."
"They charge for ambulance rides?"
"A-yup."
"Well, I'll bet that makes sick people feel better . . . So what are you looking at?"
"The baby back ribs . . . 'glazed on the grill with jalapeno jelly'," Ted quoted lovingly. "If only the damn things weren't so pricey . . ."
"Aw, go on, treat yourself."
"I don't know . . . I really shouldn't . . ."
"C'mon, you deserve it after wading through all that legal crapola. Ooooo, tostadas! Think I should--?"
"Sure," the sometimes Blue Beetle returned enthusiastically, catching the spirit. Really--why the hell not?
By the time the waiter returned, Blue and Gold had managed to convince each other to select no less than four entrees each, plus two appetizers (onion rings and, of course, mozzarella sticks.)
"You know, realistically . . . we'll never be able to eat all that," Ted said to Booster as the wide-eyed waiter retreated.
"Speak for yourself," Booster returned comfortably. "For I am the mighty IRON STOMACH MAN! And my stomach is made of mightiest--"
"Aluminum?" Beetle suggested.
"IRON," Booster corrected. Then he grinned. "Besides, that's what doggy bags are for."
"It would have to be a doggy the size of--oh no." Ted's face suddenly turned beet red and he slouched down in the booth so far that he nearly slid right under the table. In fact, he looked as though he might make that his next move as his eyes darted from side to side, seeking an escape route that wasn't there.