Brown spots on yellow tiles. Coffee stains on white counters. Rips in leather seats. Foam coming out. Sign says OPEN.

The waitress walks the floor, going from table to table with a coffee pot in one hand and her black hair up in a bun. An ink pen runs through it. She hands the gringo a menu and asks if he wants water. He says coffee will do.

Tortillas, tamales,  enchiladas, chorizo and eggs, eggs Ranchero style, caldo, menudo, and many other hangover options on the plastic sheet. He rubs his eyes.

Are you ready? The short waitress asks.

Yeah. Ready for what?

Ohhhh. Not feeling well this morning? What got you last night?

Tequila. He tells her. Tequila. Then I switched countries and went to Ireland. Whiskey. I had whiskey.

On no. She said. Don’t ever do that.

I’m a pro. Used to be a pro. Now I’m just a drunk with a headache. Tired. In need of grease.

Chorizo and eggs?

Yes, please. Corn tortillas.

Sí.

He watched her as she walked away. That woman is a goddess, he says. A true goddess.