The Prescott

Tacos, in my mom's house, meant ground beef, caramelized in the family's secret ingredient, hand-grated cheddar, shredded ice berg, and soft-fried corn tortillas. Rosarita refried frijoles were on the side.

It was therefore a shock to discover that there were other ways to make tacos.

It was, perhaps, a coincidence. It may have been more of a subconscious conspiracy. Whichever, tonight I found myself strangely drinking a gin & tonic while thin-slicing a fresh crisp red pepper.

And why was that odd? And what does that have to do with Tacos? Well, hold on!

It was, probably, 1990, or thereabout. We were in school, employed and out for adventure. While it is good to have friends in low places, it is better at times to have family in high places. In this case, not high, but really just high enough.

Dr. B's cousin was the concierge at a fine hotel atop an even-finer restaurant in the heart of San Francisco. It was a nice hotel; tasteful by Reagan-era standards. She was able to get us a room, a nice room, if not a little cramped. Nicer, though, than three smelly college boys had any business being in.

Still and all, we drove, crammed into Tom's brand new tiny little Ford Probe, the 400 miles. Music came from Cassette Tape. We took turns sleeping on the miniature back seat.

We were welcomed for the weekend, the city lay before us, and Dr. B's cousin, and her husband invited us to their home for dinner. It was a charming and bright flat just north of the Park.

They were young yuppies, making the most of their time in the city. She worked at the hotel, and he went to school. Part time, however, he poured drinks at the same place his wife worked. It was also his time to cook.

Tacos, of course, with long strips of grilled chicken. Red leaf lettuce, red onions, corn, three different kinds of cheese (none of them cheddar) and as I walked into the kitchen, he was just starting to knife paper-thin slices of crisp red bell pepper.

These were TACOS. The inspiration for the current thing that I call "Tacos." And involuntarily, that thought, that memory of those Tacos is what comes to mind mind every single time I slice red bell peppers.

I mean, hell, I don't even remember Br. B's cousin's name, let alone her husband's name. I just remember the kitchen and those goddamn tacos. Although, I need to be very clear, the tacos ARE NOT the most-memorable meal, which I mentioned last night. While this is one (or actually two) of the stories from that weekend, and while the tacos were literally life-altering, They are not the meal I mean.

Thoughts of the tacos, though, were strangely woven with tonight's divine gin & tonic (made with locally-distilled Aviation Gin). It was a perfect combination, I thought.

The night before the tacos, the night we arrived in San Francisco, we were wised around the hotel for the semi-grand tour. It was a working night, and the cousin's husband was on duty with his portable rolling bar. (I need to get me one of those...)

Introductions were made, and smalltalk was bandied about.

And then, as he was a bar man manning a bar, the offer was made. The selection was slim, however, and I eventually accepted his offer to try a gin & tonic. It was to be the first one I ever tried. The first of countless many, it turns out.

And, it was a horrible thing. It tasted like a science experiment gone wrong. It tasted more like Malaria than its cure. I sipped politely, smiling appreciatively, biding my time until I found a suitable hole to pour it down.

So, not so much a grand premonition of my life to come. It was not exactly love at first taste.

Still for such a guy to have such a life-long impact on me, it's a shame I never remembered the cousin's husband's name. And while his taco influence lives on (side-by-side with my mother's) I understand from Dr. B that his marriage did not.

That however, has nothing to do with the rest of the legendary weekend of lore...