i. Allende

Allende is one of the first Mexican restaurants I discovered in Chicago. Situated at the intersection of Halsted, Lincoln and Fullerton (one of the city's infamous six-way crossings), Allende is a mere taco al pastor's throw from DePaul university. As such, it's filled with students during the day and drunks at night.

When I moved here, I hadn't realized how segregated everything was. Each neighborhood has a distinct flavor and simply crossing certain streets changes the ethnicity of the people around you. Walk one block south or two blocks west and it's like changing the channel from Bravo to BET or Telemundo. Lincoln Park, the neighborhood I first settled in, was overwhelmingly vanilla ("filled with Chads and Trixies," I was once told). The only brown people I saw were busboys and line cooks.

Coming from an area of Houston that was over two-thirds Hispanic, this was unsettling. I was used to seeing Español splashed on signs and storefronts. "Pollos Asados." Or "Se Necesita Ayuda." The language wafted in the air everywhere I went, whether in the form of a quiet conversation at the bank or as a corrido blaring from a truck on 59. But in Lincoln Park, there was no Spanish, no corridos, no color. It's part of what made those first few months here so difficult (later on, I would venture down to Pilsen to meet a friend for lunch and think "Ohhh, so THIS is where we're at").

"Homesick" isn't the right word, but it's close. Two weeks after arriving, I sat on the couch watching the snow accumulate on parked cars and considered calling it quits. I missed everything about Houston. Family. Friends. Delma. Sunlight. The fact that the comedy scene was volatile and cutthroat didn't help.

Pride kept me here. It's stupid and stubborn, but I didn't want to admit failure so soon. I had faith that I would someday "make it," whatever that means. I still do.

But I missed home.

I discovered Allende on one of my many, many walks throughout the city (unemployment gives one plenty of time for walking and wallowing in misery). Its' exterior is unassuming and unimpressive, but not being able to find decent Mexican food anywhere, I went in. I picked up a paper menu and leafed through it as I walked to the register.

"Hi, welcome to Allende, what would you like?"

The lady at the register spoke rapidly. She looked down as she spoke, writing on a yellow legal pad. Her 'you' was pronounced as 'jew.'

"Hola. ¿Cómo estás?" I asked.

The lady glanced up. The conversation switched to Spanish.

"Good, good. Just here. Working. You been here before?" she asked.

"No, this is my first time."

Not having spoken Spanish in so long, the words felt heavy in my mouth. My tongue had difficulty with certain words, specific movements. Rolling my R's felt clumsy and unnatural.

She nodded.

"Everything's good here, but the egg and chorizo burrito is probably my favorite."

"Cool," I said. "I'll take one of those."

"Beans and cheese?"

I nodded.

She rung me up, then handed me my change. I sat down and took off my gloves, two hats and three hoodies (I still wasn't used to the cold).

The smell of carne asada filled the restaurant. Vicente Fernandez was blasting from the back room. The lady at the register was talking to one of the cooks in Spanish, laughing at the fact that he watched the same novelas she did.

It was familiar. It was home.

The burrito was ok. The eggs were burnt and the tortilla was hard. But it was familiar. A flashback to my mom making huevos con chorizo for us on the weekends. The lady at the register was far from my mom and Allende was not the apartment I grew up in. But it would have to do.

Like an Aztec warrior gaining strength by eating pozole filled with the hearts of his enemies, I was ingesting courage in the form of a breakfast burrito.

Most of the dishes were mediocre. The bread used for the tortas was too hard, the chicken was too chewy, the beef too salty. Yet the significance of Allende was not the food, it was the link to home, to family. For about twenty minutes, I could pretend I was surrounded by my sisters and parents, enjoying dinner with them. A psychological recharge of sorts. The lady at the register and I would have a friendly conversation, allowing me to brush the rust off my Spanish. Once I finished my meal, I'd gather my belongings (gloves, two hats, three hoodies) and head back out into the loneliness of the city.

Sometimes, if they weren't busy, I wouldn't even order anything. I would just sit.

Eventually, when Delma moved here and we found our circle of friends, Allende was relegated to the occasional 2AM sober-up meal (we had become the drunks of the night).

There are better Mexican restaurants in Chicago. There are better Mexican restaurants in Lincoln Park, to be honest. But those first few months here, Allende was a symbol of strength for me. A reminder of not just who I was, but where I came from and, ultimately, where I could go.