I have no reason to wake up hungry,
but how I miss Estrada’s dark-red
enchilada sauce on my tongue,
macaroni, stuffed rellenos, sizzling
tostada compuestas with chile
con caso, beans and rice—
or all you could eat prime rib
at the Red Barn, south of town—
thick slabs sliced from half a cow,
bloody juice pooled and running
right before your appetite—kids
well-fed at two bucks a head
for hard-working families
out on the town. Visalia was
the place to eat well before
it wanted to be like everywhere else—
before the fast-food similes
from the cities it escaped.
drycrikjournal 