We took Ilana, her parents and her friend out for dinner to celebrate her graduation from elementary school. Mom and I were treating, and Freddy was driving, a necessity in my old age. My granddaughter’s friend was Hispanic, and knowing of the prominence of eggs in South American dishes from my stays at La Cocina, I asked if she had ordered the egg in her dish separately.
Paula informed me that she had ordered a breakfast dish, and what was the big deal? Having played the role of the immigrant at a previous stage of my life, I felt embarrassed for a curious delving into other customs. I changed the subject to El Huelvo, the restaurant on Old Country Rd.
