Chapter 4
Rory orders a car, and I frown when we arrive at our first stop. “A gas station?” I ask.
Rory nods.
Not only is it a gas station but a somewhat shabby one at that. We get out of the car, and as we round the corner, we have to walk past a long line of people waiting to go inside.
“Pro-tip,” Rory says, “whenever you travel anywhere new, find long lines. Nine times out of ten, that’s where the good food is.”
“What could there be that’s so good at a gas station?” I scoff.
“Barbecue. The best in the states, dontchaknow.”
“Barbecue?”
He nods as we take our place in line. I frown. This line will take an hour before we can go inside, then another hour to wait for the food and the eat it. Maybe I should have gone with Dr. Keach instead of Rory. He was ready to go right then and there.
As if sensing my turning mood, Rory nudges me. “Don’t worry. The line will move fast, and you’ll see, the wait will be more than worth it.”
He is right. We get through the line and have our food in front of us in less than thirty minutes. The dining area is small and crowded. People don’t linger and talk, so other diners can have a table.
“This is huge,” I say, looking at the brisket sandwich Rory recommended as the only thing worth having. Piles of brisket on a bun with melted cheese and onion rings tower on my plate. Adjusting to the portions in Kansas City will take time but serve my weight-gain goals well. I close the sandwich with the top bun and take a bite. My eyes draw closed. The meat is tender and smoky and so delicious.
“You didn’t put any barbecue sauce on it,” he says, and hands me a bottle.
I try the sauce first and wrinkle my nose. “Too sweet,” I say.
He then hands me a second sauce that is spicier and less sweet. I add only a little of that to appease him.
“So?” He asks.
“It’s delicious,” I say and mean it. “Except for the fries.”
“What’s wrong with the fries?” Rory looks down at the tray with the fry mountain.
“They have sugar. Who the hell puts sugar on fries? It’s like everything here has sugar. It’s really annoying. Sugar is for desserts—that’s it. Maybe sweet and sour at Chinese. But that’s really it.”
Rory blinks at me, then shakes his head. “The fries don’t have sugar.”
“Are you serious?”
“What?”
“They are like candied fries; they have so much sugar! You really can’t taste it?”
He shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.
I only eat half of my sandwich, even though it’s so good I could probably stuff it in. I want to avoid what saucy Chema christened ‘TFF’ or ‘Too Full to Fuck.’ I heed all of Chema’s warnings.
Our second stop on my tour of the city lands us at a plaza that I have to admit is stunning. The architecture reminds me of the Spanish-style haciendas typical in Mexico. We walk for an hour past restaurants, bars, and shops, never once going inside. Rory talks about his love of traveling and how he wishes he could do it more and asks me questions about Mexico, but we don’t go too deep. I won’t let it, even with the ample invitations he opens up.
“How’s your English so good? I mean, you know a lot of colloquialisms . . . I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m sorry, maybe that’s a rude question,” says Rory as he cups the back of his neck like he did at the bar.
I laugh. “Not at all. A lot of middle—and upper—class kids in Mexico love American culture. English is so cool when you’re a teenager in Mexico. We pay attention to all the music, movies, everything that’s popular here. And I did a year in a Swiss boarding school when I was fifteen.”
Rory stops in his tracks to look at me. “Fancy,” he says and resumes his walk.
I scoff. “Yeah. That’s one word for it. I think Dad was hoping I’d come back a lady,” I say wryly.