Martins Comida Casera

Its 8:15pm on Friday, what am I doing still in the lab? I have this urge to spill the bitter ink of today’s abuse by the owner of Martins “comida chingona” (555N. 4th Ave, Tucson), which I assumed it is Martin Fuentes. Let me tell you my dear lector that I’m Mexican and that is why I feel this restaurant should not represent our cuisine.

Around lunchtime today, I took a break from writing my dissertation and went to 4th Avenue. I decided to take a look inside Martins (probably because “comida chingona” means “darn good food”. I’ve heard about it, and when I realized it was Mexican food, I decided to enter. It was a cozy little restaurant with square tables and a counter that divided the kitchen from the tables with chairs (customer’s area). I was very hungry, and the waiter was very kind to offer me a menu. He was busy and I was standing looking at the menu. It was my first time in that place so I did not know if I should wait for someone to tell me where to sit, or if I could just go sit. I had a great impression so far. But then, while looking at the menu (nothing impressive, other than the overpriced bean tostada at $5.75 which pulled a smile out of my face because those better be beans grown in the Moon to be that expensive) a pile of (flour? corn? I couldn’t tell) tortillas caught my eye. I don’t know if you have been in an authentic Mexican restaurant in Tucson but I’ve been in quite some, and it is not unheard of that you can actually buy handmade flour tortillas there). So –innocent me- I thought those tortillas in packages, inside plastic bags were for sale. Out of curiosity I approached that table and when I was about to touch one of those tortilla bags the cook (which I did not know is also the owner) yelled at me: “No touching my tortillas!!!” like if he was yelling at a dog taking a crap on his leather shoes… he did not say: “I’ll be with you in a minute”, or “someone will take your order shortly”, or “please sit wherever you please” nothing except the reprimand… so I did not say anything, I turned around and went to eat at Quetzal (which is great!), a restaurant just down 4th avenue. Well, while having lunch I was also talking to my husband over the phone and told him about the “yell to your dog” incident and he encouraged me to go back and let them know my feelings. I did not want to bother, but at the end I decided to give them another chance and let them know that they “hurt my feelings” and that I was a customer who was willing to try their food some other time (if things had gone different).
So I went back and outside it was the cook(the owner) who yelled at me having a smoke with a friend. So I went inside (it was pretty empty, go wonder! Only one table with people in the other room) and waited for about 3 minutes.
Finally Martin finished his cigarette and came inside.
Martin: “You wanna eat here?”
Me: “No, thank you I already had lunch. Are you the one that scolded me for touching the tortillas?” (after that comment he caught my Mexican accent so he answered in Spanish… almost perfect Spanish except for some bad words?…) so after this I will translate what he said to English so everybody can get a grasp of the lowlife person running that place.
Martin: “Yes, I hate it when people touch the tortillas and make them dirty with their filthy hands.” (he kept raising his voice from loud to very loud throughout the sentence)
Me: “Excuse me? Those tortillas were not in your kitchen, they were on a table, and I thought they were for sale. And please don’t yell at me.”
Martin: “I’m not yelling.”
Me: “Yes you are, I am a customer, and you are not only going to loose me as one, but also my lab group, which I was going to bring if I liked the food today.” (Obviously he did not take Restaurant Management 101.)
Martin: “You can shovel you lab group up in your ***. Get the *** out of my building. This is my building, get the *** out!”
Me: “I’m leaving, you don’t need to be an as ***.”
Martin: “Get the f *** out, fu *** fat b ***h, native-indian face.”
Me: “Take it easy, you are not that slim yourself.” (I know this was extra, but I was really holding it in by now)
Martin: “Shut the fu *** up!, fu *** bi ***, I may not be slim but I’m very handsome, not like you!” (yelling at me, now across the street while I was leaving in my car)

Well, I left. I still don’t understand why, Martin, having Mexican origin could have been that rude to me. Sometimes it saddens me to encounter those situations. Please don’t think we are all the same.