My Experience At El Tepyac Last Week:

 

            Nestled within the deep barrios of Boyle Heights, a restaurant landmark has staked its claim for the last 4 decades.  I had frequented this place as a child with my father, but it wasn’t until last week that I decided to make my own trek to El Tepeyac to better understand this restaurant and its local significance.  Stepping into El Tepeyac was like barging in on someone’s home while they’re in the middle of eating dinner (breakfast in my case).  You walk inside, what appears to be no different than a converted home turned restaurant, into a vat of history and memories taking place before your very eyes.  More or less visually assaulted by the plethora of memorabilia specific to “El Tepeyac” (shirts, paintings, photos, awards) I knew I had stepped into a very credible establishment.  It was barely 9 am and the restaurant was packed to the brim.  I took a seat at the bar, closest to the front door, and was immediately handed a menu by a waitress dressed in traditional Mexican regalia.  It seemed like she had handed someone a menu sitting in my seat over ten thousand times, for she didn’t even glance at me nor acknowledge my presence.  It was almost reflexive.  Before she could turn away to carry on with her routine, I quickly shot the menu back at her responding: “Huevos Rancheros y una horchata!” (In my most respectful Mexican accent I could muster).  As contrived as that gesture may have been, I could tell at that split second, a tiny light of validation illuminated in her seasoned waitress complexion and she gave me a nod of approval and a quickly placed my order to the chefs.

            As I waited for my food, I turned around to examine the clientele and only after a short visual survey noticed that I happened to be the only gringo dining at El Tepeyac.  A party of about eight policemen and detectives took refuge in the far back corner (that’s who belonged to all those unmarked Crown Victoria’s in the parking lot!) laughing and joking with what appeared to be the owner: “Manuel”.  His name, photo, and even caricature were emblazoned on multiple surfaces all over the restaurant.  From screen printed t-shirts for sale all the way to informal pictures of him and Antiono Villarigosa, I got the feeling that I was in the presence of a heavy weight in the Boyle Heights community.  As I watched Manuel make his rounds from table to table, it seemed like he had known each person his whole life.  Giving hugs and kisses to the wives of burly tattooed thugs seemed commonplace for this man, for everyone that ate at his restaurant respected him.

            All of a sudden, my food arrived and the waitress handed it to me with a smile.  Perhaps it was a residual smile from someone else that had amused her prior to her delivering my food, or maybe she actually appreciated my efforts to reach out and disprove the cultural biases and stereotypes at stake for a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, bohemian dressed person like myself; I didn’t necessarily fit in all that seamlessly….

 

Questions for myself:

 

-       How are restaurants gathering hubs for people in the community, people outside the community?

-       How does one get acquainted with the personnel of a restaurant? How many times does it take to fully be accepted as a regular?

-       Can I prove that restaurants are the most effective mediators between the local natives of any area and an outsider like myself?