The dangers of teaching my daughters about non-white food
It was getting close to that time in the evening when, if we didn’t feed our kids, they would transform into adorable balls of terror.
So I told my friend and his daughters to meet my daughters and me at El Pacifico Market. El Pacifico is a Mexican market here in Petaluma that not many white people go to.
The floor is old red tile, and the ceiling is covered with Disney princesses piñatas.
Hidden in the back is a small Mexican restaurant that honors the long-held Mexican tradition of Taco Tuesday, which started in San Diego.
It is one Taco for one dollar — a really good deal even if Trump has already defeated inflation.
My daughters are six and four, and I have made it my mission to expose them to ethnic food, which is basically lingo for non-white food, which also means food with actual flavor.
I want them to be open to culinary experiences, which is insane because they are six and four.
We made it to El Pacifico. And they let me know they do not want to go to Pacifico by telling me they do not want to go to Pacifico and that they’d rather go to Chipotle.
I finally convinced them and carried them against their will into the restaurant.
We ordered. As I sat there with my daughters, I thought, “Wow! I’m great at parenting. I can write a book and coach other parents.”
And then Jovie, my oldest, started crying and told me again that she wanted to go to Chipotle.
So we rushed to finish the tacos we ordered that no one but me was eating, and we said goodbye to our friends.
I didn’t feel great about taking my kids to Chipotle. But I told myself, “You know what, Chipotle was probably founded by a proud Mejicano.”
So I searched the founder’s name online and found that it’s Steve Ells.
“You know what? There are Mexicans called Steve. This doesn’t mean anything. If CK Louis can be Mexican, then a dude called Steve can be Mexican, too. Let me find a picture.”
I found what seemed to be the pastiest Midwesterner ever.
“You know what, there are a lot of white Mexicans.”
Then I noticed under his picture that his dad lent him 85 grand to start Chipotle. That’s when I knew… this pinche was no mejicano.
I made it to Chipotle to find that they were also having Taco Tuesday.
I mean. They weren’t. But it looked like it because the line wrapped around the restaurant and went all the way to the back entrance.
I got in line with both of my daughters, who were by now alternating between meltdowns.
They wanted to sit down, but I knew they couldn’t do it without me. So they flopped around in line.
We were two people away from our turn, and I saw a customer talking to the burrito artist. I couldn’t see the customer’s face, but I knew something was wrong.
I got to the front, and I knew what was wrong.
There was no white rice.
I should’ve known when I saw that man’s shoulder slump so low. Here he was thinking, “The price of eggs is ridiculous, Trump is nuking the world, and now there is no white rice at Chipotle. Is life even worth living?”
When Jovie heard there was no white rice, she shouted that she did not want brown rice. So I asked, “How long before you have white rice again?
“Ten minutes.”
“Do you want to wait ten minutes?” I asked Jovie.
When she said yes, Amélie lost it. She would rather ruin her meal with brown rice than wait another ten minutes.
I picked her up and walked to the back of the line, which had replenished back to the back door.
This time, I sat them down at a table and let them be without me because I just couldn’t.
I made it to the line, but I had to come back because they couldn’t stop arguing.
I went back to the line, and the two people who were behind me didn’t offer me my original spot back. I got it. People want their burritos, and I decided to have my kids, so it’s too bad for me. I would have to wait for my cilantro lime rice… if they left me any.
I finally made it to the front. I wouldn’t have to wait any longer. I was about to get my food.
Instead, we were informed that they still did not have the white rice. But he still had brown rice. Shocker.
Listen, we need to drop the act with brown rice. “Oh, it’s just much healthier.” “Oh, it’s so much nuttier.” Brown rice is so early 2000s. We tried it. It sucks. It was time to move on.
I went from Carlos to Karen and asked for the manager.
The employee disappeared, and someone from the cash register summoned me to join him by the register, away from where the food was. But I wasn’t moving.
So I summoned him to the front of the lack of white rice, and I simply said, “I was told the white rice would be ready in ten minutes.”
“You can see we are busy.” Classic responsibility avoidance.
“All I’m asking is when it will be ready?”
“I don’t know. Three minutes.”
“Great! So I can order, and in three minutes, you’ll hand over the white rice. Right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Everyone behind me cheered… in my head. No one said anything. But they didn’t have to. We were trauma-bonded. I knew what they were thinking.
By the time I made it to the register, the rice had magically appeared, and we were on our way to eat.
We found a table in the back, and I thought, “Wow! I’m great at parenting. I can write a book and coach other parents. Show them how good things come to those who wait.”
And as I was mapping my book tour, Amélie told me, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
So while our food was hot, and for the next fifteen minutes, we hung out in the bathroom.
