The Eastern Barrios

If you’ve been following my exploits with even the mildest of interest, you may have observed that the most distressing aspect of living in Australia is my insatiable jones for good Mexican food. Whenever I chance to meet another American expat, the conversation inevitably turns to food, our longing for the comforts of familiar flavours, and the pathetic lump of sweet dough and bad cheese that passes for pizza here. I always enquire as to the existence of any authentic Mexican restaurants, and the replies invariably express the same sentiment: “Well, Café Such and Such is pretty good, but it’s not really Mexican. “

I recently discovered a web discussion forum called “Yanks Down Under”, and of course, a sizable portion of the discourse concerned food. Well, there I found a resoundingly good review of a restaurant called Azteca. According to a source at the Australian Embassy, there are approximately 750 Mexicans living in Australia, and on any given night of the week, about half of them can be found at Azteca, drinking imported cerveza and getting a taste of home.

Well, you might as well have told me that Jesus and Mohammed had appeared in a compromised position on a corn tortilla – I immediately set off on a pilgrimage to the Eastern suburbs (Is there some instinct that draws Mexicans to settle in Eastern Suburbs?). Kevin mapped out our journey, and on Friday evening, we met downtown to catch the L74 to Randwick Junction, a mere 40 minute bus ride from paradise. However, in the efficiency typical of Sydney Busses, there were no signs for the L74. There was an X74 and a 374, so we took a chance that they were headed for the same destination. Overhearing our confusion, the helpful driver asked where we were headed, informed us that he didn’t go there, and then drew us an elaborate map on the back of a bus ticket to show us how to get where we were indeed going. We thanked him profusely, and then walked the half kilometre, only to discover that he did indeed go exactly where we wanted to go, we just thought we were going somewhere else.

One block from the restaurant, saliva gushing onto our shirt fronts, Kevin said “Wouldn’t it be funny if they were closed for renovations? Remember that time in Bakersfield…” No sooner had the words faded from the air, than we were standing in front of a darkened store front, staring at a sign that said “Closed from April 23 to May 21st. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

We faced each other and burst into hysterical laughter, since the only alternative was to be really upset, and that didn’t sound like much fun. We walked across the street to the local pub, had a schooner, laughed some more, and began the two hour trek home. One bus, two trains, and a cab ride later, we sat on the couch reviewing the powerful lessons the universe had taught us that evening about desire, serendipity, patience, and calling ahead for reservations.