James Chavez

In New Mexico I stopped for gas at eleven at night and found a man in boots staring into a glass box of fried burritos like a general studying a map. The station was called Allsup's. For sixty miles there had been only dark desert, two-lane asphalt, and the occasional cow. Then, under fluorescent light, stood a pyramid of golden chimichangas and beef and bean burritos stacked inside white paper sleeves. The man beside me did not look at me. He pointed at the glass and said, "Get the beef and bean. And the Hatch green chile. Do not eat it until you pass the second traffic light or you will burn the roof off your mouth." I obeyed him. The cashier handed me two paper sleeves that were already turning translucent from the grease. In my country, chefs train ten years to achieve the correct tempura crust. Allsup's achieves it at a highway intersection next to a rack of motor oil. I waited until the second traffic light. I took one bite over the steering wheel. I understand now why the cowboys do not complain about the long drive between towns. They are not driving between towns. They are driving between Allsup's.