THERE ARE two, large, high-mountain lakes hereabouts. One I can almost see from our upstairs terraza.
Tall trees impede the view.
The other, Lake Zirahuen, is about 15 miles away. We traveled those miles in the Honda on Sunday to lunch at Tapimba where we’d eaten only once before, about a year back.
The restaurant serves a killer plate of arrachera, and that’s what drew us, that and the spectacular setting.
Entering the dining room, we noticed we were the only customers with the exception of three beautiful babes, just to the left of the photo above. They were models.
It’s a good thing Donald Trump wasn’t there. Or Bill Clinton. The gals were totally safe with me, of course. I had my child bride who provided stiff competition, beauty-wise.
The models were with two fellows who were setting up camera equipment on an old, covered dock just below the restaurant. While we were still eating, the models joined them and began doing those silly poses that models do.
But we went for the arrachera which was, as Mexicans say, “well-served” with a big glob of guacamole and a baked potato. You don’t see baked potatoes often in Mexico.
We won’t wait another year to visit Tapimba again.
LET’S TAKE a brief break from tossing darts at America’s politics, its unraveling society, Barry Obama and diminishing liberties. It’s time to gloat because I live down here, and you do not, or probably not because most Moon fans* live above the Rio Bravo.
Life here is good. It is not dangerous — fraught with peril — as many would have you think. It is peaceful, fun, colorful and inexpensive.
Let’s take yesterday, for example. Our young nephew, age 10, had spent the night with us. He has no bathtub where he lives, just a shower stall, and he loves filling our huge tub with hot water, getting in and hooting and hollering for about an hour.
He does this on the evening he arrives. He does it again the following morning. If he spends another night, that means two more sessions in what amounts to his swimming hole.
And we always eat waffles in the morning when he’s here. He and I are big waffle fans.
But let’s get back to yesterday. It was a sunny Sunday with cool temps. We drove downtown to eat lunch on the big plaza, a sidewalk table like in Paris. But people weren’t speaking French. They spoke Spanish. There were lots of Mexican tourists.
We dropped the kid off with his mama, and my child bride and I crossed the plaza and found a sidewalk table at this good restaurant. We both ordered arrachera, medium-rare. It came with guacamole, beans and warm tortillas.