When I was a kid living in the borderland, most of the time going out to eat meant stopping by a nameless taco cart representing the Holy Saints, pulling up to tables outside with the wasps buzzing near the trashcans, and then scarfing down some Flaming Hot Cheetos elote for a well-balanced dinner.
But for my abuela, that was truly no bueno.
Donning her pristine polka-dot wardrobe, she would always take us to some dressy place on the Islands, and with our “church shirts” laundered, impeccable good manners present, and, of course, the local priest always having a seat at the table, treat us to fine Mexican meals.