TACO TUESDAY

 I had a hankering for Mexican food last night. Instead of going out, I made some shrimp tacos, which turned out great if I do say so myself. I know that Tuesday is official "taco day," and so I may have violated some law by having them on a Monday. Oh well, sue me.  Anyway, it reminded me of the Tuesday nights in the summer up in Washington State when all of the cherry-drying pilots in our company would descend on one of our favorite restaurants in the area, The Club Sports Bar and Grill in the town of Okanogan. They had a deal where you got three tacos for $3.00.  

All of us...usually twelve or thirteen...would amass and terrorize Connie and John (the proprietors) and their hapless but unfailingly accommodating staff.  We'd eat tacos and drink beer until the wee hours, playing Tom Jones' "What's New Pussycat?" over and over on the jukebox until the regulars got frustrated and left...until we were all good and drunk and the female pilots would be up on the tables, dancing topless.  Well, usually the female pilots.  The owner of our company stopped coming to Taco Night.  Even he didn't want to be associated with us.  The "clippers" (the kids who worked in the nearby marijuana fields trimming the product) always eyed us suspiciously.

"Bruh, I think those guys over there are helicopter pilots!"

"No bruh, they must be sailors.  They're drinking and cursing and partying like they're on shore leave."

"Bruh, that one chick's been dancing on that table since we got here."

"Bruh, the chick in the blue polo shirt with the gray hair?  That's a dude, bruh.  He's, like, the ringleader or something. And he's got them...whaddya call 'em...manboobs."

"Bruh, no way!  Maaaaan, they should just smoke weed like we do and chill out."

"Bruh!  Pilots can't smoke weed - it's illegal for them!"

"Bruh, the FAA ought to make alcohol illegal then."

I was usually designated to make the reservation because we need a very big table.  Very quickly, The Club began recognizing my phone number.  If Connie answered, I'd hear a long, exasperated sigh followed by, "Bahhhhhhhhhb...." (Another sigh) "How many tonight, Bob?"  I mean, you'd think she'd be happy to hear from us!  Then again, twelve pilots ordering two "sets" of (3) tacos apiece meant that they'd be making up to 72 tacos - just for us!  They would sometimes run out of taco shells, or meat.  And even if they didn't make money on the loss-leader tacos, they certainly made money off us on the beer...which is, I think, the point of Taco Night.

Anyway, when we finally left, usually as the sun was coming up, the 17 year-old grandson of our owner had to drive us back to the compound.  He was the least-drunk of all of us.  He didn't drink at the bar, but what he did before he got there, we didn't know and we didn't ask.  The other pilots were all, like, "Bob, you should drive!"  But Bob is not stupid. Or so I tell people.

Yes, we had some great times up there in Brewster, Washington, eating and drinking (mostly drinking!) at great places like The Club, Smallwood Farms, and of course, the Sweet River Bakery.  That episode of my life is over now, but I think back fondly on it every time I eat a taco.  Even on a Monday.