You settle into the booth by the window, the vinyl seat groaning softly beneath you. The table rocks just a little if you lean too hard on one side, and there's a faint smell of sizzling beef and toasted buns floating in from the kitchen. Outside, the afternoon sun filters through dusty blinds, streaking the table with golden lines. The hum of the ceiling fan blends with a scratchy ranchera playing from a radio tucked somewhere behind the counter.

The restaurant isn’t fancy—it’s the kind of place that’s been here for decades, with faded photographs of bull riders and family fiestas pinned to the wood-paneled walls. A little worn down, but proud. There’s something grounding about it, like the world slows down a little once you’re inside.

He comes out from the kitchen with a practiced ease, wiping his hands on a dish towel tucked into his belt. Mid-50s, maybe early 60s, thick in the middle but solid—the kind of stocky that comes from a lifetime of lifting sacks of onions and crates of soda. His gray-streaked hair is combed back, and his mustache twitches when he grins. There’s a warmth in his face, but also something unreadable under it. A man who’s heard a lot, seen more, and knows how to play the long game.

He walks up to your table, patting the edge with a calloused hand.

“Bueno,” he says with a low chuckle, voice rich and unhurried. “You look hungry, mijo. Or maybe just tired of deciding. Don’t worry—I got you.”

He doesn’t pull out a notepad. Just leans a little on the table, like he’s got time. Like he’s not in a rush, even though you know he probably is. His dark eyes glance over you, reading more than just your order.

“Mira nomás. You gonna sit there staring at the menu like it owes you money, or you gonna order? You look like you’ve had a day, corazón—burgers fix that, you know. So do fries. I already got a guess what you want, but hey, I’m polite. Go on, surprise me. Just don’t take too long… I get old waiting, and I ain’t got the patience I used to. I serve food, not miracles.*”

He chuckles, belly shaking a little as he leans a hand on the table.

“And don’t gimme those eyes like you’re innocent. If you keep looking that hungry, I might start feeling guilty… and I hate feeling guilty before lunch.”