Midday we found ourselves at Queensboro Plaza and were faced with crossing all the traffic funneling onto the Queensboro Bridge. Instead we escaped the cacophany of the cars and the squeel of subway trains entering the massive Queensboro Station overhead, by dodginginto a hole-in-the-wall Mexican diner. We went right to the back and plunked down at a table.

Before we had a chance to look at the menus the cook behind the counter went to the jukebox on the wall and had it blaring away. A waitress came and the first thing she told us was that she can hardly speak English, then she proceeded to stand there and chat away, non-stop. She is from Peru, the rest of the people in the restaurant are from Mexico, but she's the exception. She wants to become a journalist. She managed to get the music turned down a notch and entertained us mightily, but taking our order was beyond her. The cook behind the counter stepped over and matter-of-factly serviced our needs. I wound up with brocolli enchiladas which were surprisingly good. The waitress came back and chattered some more with us and at one point she stopped using English and started expressing herself isslow, concise Spanish and Bob-san nodded his head to each phrase.

Unfortunatly, no photo of the waitress. I kick myself for the opportunity lost. Somehow Bob seemed to think she didn't want her picture taken but a woman this vivacious of course wants her picture taken. Instead we have a picture of a man at the counter who seemed friendly and concerned for us--possibly the owner?


At the counter