Granny's Ghastly Guac

Granny’s Ghastly Guac

“Get the review primped and polished by tomorrow afternoon,” my boss, Macy, instructed. “Remember, balance the honesty and positivity out. Alimento Exquisito is paying some big bucks for this sponsorship, and we want to please them as well as the readers, and potential customers, capisce?” I nodded stoically. 

As for the reason behind this lecture? Originating from a respectable Mexican family, overdosed with a supply of sensational cooks, you could say my expectations were sky high concerning the topic of edibles. And...let’s just say the previous review was wholly transparent - transparently negative. I mean, I couldn’t help it if their salsa was tasteless and their beef tacos tasted like leathery lumps wrapped in pulpy, fibrous paper. 

Though my distinguished taste in food was the reason I was hired by The Jolly Squawk, it did not mean they allowed my reviews to be published entirely transparent - after all, we all have to earn a living. 

SIlently vowing to myself to at least attempt a more favourable disposition - against my better judgement - I strode through the entrance of Alimento Exquisito,  mentally lowering my mandates. The familiar scent of good ol’ Mexican food assaulted my senses, but the pungent smell seemed malodorous - oh dear.  At first glance, the area seemed Mexican and relaxing, with red and yellow tablecloths, and green chairs. That is, until you reached the kitchen. A hurricane had swept through, yet the staff continued frying the fish, baking the beef, making the salsas. 

Returning to the table, I brandished my pencil above my notepad, jotting down notes frantically. “Menu, miss?” a petite waitress, probably no more than sixteen, held out a considerably thick menu. As I scoured the menu, I became aware of her presence lingering beside me. I smiled gently at her. “You can go back to the counter, you know.” 

The brunette turned to me, her eyes bright and vibrant. “Oh, no, miss! I’d love to get to know you better! I’m Francine!” I mentally rolled my eyes. F-grade restaurants checklist: sentimental waitresses - check. Reluctantly, I glanced at her. “I’m Ana, Ana Maria.” 

Francine’s eyes widened. “Ooh! You’re the first real Mexican to come to Amento Exquisito! Nobody here is Mexican - even our chef is Italian!” She exclaimed in delight. Bravo, girl. Spilling the beans about the fake-Mexican restaurant you work for already? And she can’t even get the name right, and she works here. Good Heavens - I can already tell how the food’s about to taste. 

Finally, the quesadillas, tortilla chips, and the dip arrived. After a gruelling fifteen minutes tolerating Francine’s chatter about what her mother thought of the haircut her sister Cassie got, the new ruby earrings Francine had gotten for Christmas, and what her English teacher said to Holly, I concluded that Francine was the most loquacious person I had ever met. And that was saying plenty, considering my rowdy Mexican roots. 

After Francine was whisked away by the chef - God bless him - to serve a noisy family in the corner, I dug in into the quesadillas. A familiar scent caught my nose, a scent that made me retch at the same time as grin fondly - though why and what, boggled my mind. It was only when I turned to dip a chip into the sauce that I realised - the guacamole smelt eerily similar to my Granny’s botched one from twenty years ago - the one I had coined as Granny’s Ghastly Guac. 

Granny gave a hearty chuckle as she beamed. “And now, for my favourite part!” We had been planning Papa’s birthday supper for months, and at last, today would be the day our plan would be rendered into action. The tortilla chips were fried and golden-brown, the beef enchiladas assembled, the red snapper vera cruzana baked to distinction. 

“The Guac!!” she exclaimed, a luminescent sparkle in her green eyes, a healthy hue of rouge in her rosy cheeks. “Gather the avocados, the red onions, the tomatoes and jalapenos, the limes and lemons, the salt and pepper; all of it,  querida Ana! We’re about to get this party started, eh!” I giggled as Granny tickled me. “Stop it, Abuela! We’ve got to get cooking!” I yelped between my laughter. Granny tickled me harder, yelling playfully over the noise, “It’s Granny to you, Madame!”

My Granny was an American beauty who married her Mexican sweetheart - my abuelo. My Papa married my Mexican Mama, making me three-quarters Mexican and a quarter American. As American as Granny was, she constantly attempted to make Mexican delights for her beloved Mexican family, and often spoke of herself as ‘an honorary Mexican’. I had always known my Granny as Abuela - until Abuelo passed on, and she became Granny, not being able to bear a constant reminder of her beloved late husband.

While Granny’s Mexican food was pretty amazing, the one dish she could never get right was ironically, Papa’s normally favourite dish, Guacamole. And nobody ever had the heart to break the news to poor Granny - her Guac...wasn’t exactly finger-licking-good. 

“Pass me the mayonnaise, querida Ana.” Oh dear. “But Granny, the recipe has no mention of mayonnaise apart from discouraging the use of it.” Granny tapped her head. “Granny knows best, querida Ana. Free-hand measurements, eh?” With that, she grabbed the mayonnaise and squelched a monstrous blob into the concoction of chopped red onions, mashed unripe avocado, and lime lemon juice. I groaned internally. I was no chef, yet even I knew you shouldn’t stray that far from the recipe. Granny spurted mayonnaise onto my face, leaving me sputtering as my nose and eyes were enveloped in the sticky white condiment. “Brighten up, sourpuss.”

Granny chopped all the jalapenos, garlic, cilantro, and tomatoes, chucking them all into the basin, seeds and all. Scooping a pile of salt onto the guac and a mound of pepper, Granny stirred the mushy mess into that signature Ghastly Guac. Bleargh. 

“It’s done!” she beamed, joy radiating from her being. “Your Papa will love it!!” Yeah...not so sure about that...but it’s the effort that counts, right?

Just as I remembered, the Ghastly Guac tasted as revoltingly appalling as Granny’s. Groannn. But the awful-tasting dish still held a nostalgic fondness in honour of the many memories we had shared together, reminiscences I would treasure eternally.

I studied Macy’s expression meticulously as she scoured my review. “Well I must say, Ana, this is the most balanced food review I’ve ever read, and even I know how atrocious their food is. Bravo! You’re getting a raise.” By this point, I was so ecstatic I could have shrieked like a banshee. 

“By the way, how did you create such a superb review?” 

I smiled and tapped my head. “Granny knows best.”