By José Dominguez, May 13, 2021 — At the beginning of my law studies, I immediately made some friends that later became an important part of my life. Almost all of them were school teachers and very serious readers. Each one had a very different approach to life and our paths mingled naturally, nurtured by the school environment that gave us a common ground to share readings, discuss social issues, communicate accomplishments, publish gossips, tell jokes, etc.
In the meanwhile, I was living in my aunt’s rented room paid for by my parents. As you can imagine, living in that way was a blessing because it gave me the opportunity to continue my studies and my lifestyle. In another way, it had its own limitations. Well, life is not perfect, nothing is perfect except God, according to some believers. One imperfect thing was the scarce and elemental food that I ate. At the precise moment when the episode of this story happened, I had been eating the same simple menu for 7 years since I was 12. My monthly allowance helped me to pay for my transportation, and virtually drinking coffee or refreshments were a luxury. Nevertheless, since my father used to work in the cinema business, I had a card that gave me and a guest a green light to enter any theater for free. Sometimes I made some extra pesos finding clients who wanted to see weekend movies by paying half the entrance. The reality is that when I was invited to eat, I was more than happy because it meant avoiding having lunch or dinner as usual.
One of my friends was Alberto Saenz. We called him “Beto,” but since he was a classical music lover we ended calling him “Beethoven.” He was a super intense fellow. Nobody knew more than him about Mexican culture, philosophy, music, art, etc. Always smiling, he lived in a world made of beautiful art images, musical notes, and discussions with famous thinkers. Occasionally when I asked him something, he didn’t clasp the question immediately and I had to repeat the interrogation since he was absent. Recognizing his lapse, he begged for my pardon and asked me to excuse his tardiness to respond. It didn’t upset me. I knew he came and went from our world to his abstract and intense inner space. He was teaching philosophy at the nearest high school and lived with his parents and two sisters. One day, I don’t remember why, he told me: “Dominguitos (nickname meaning little Dominguez), come tomorrow to my house. I invite you to eat, can you be there at 1:00 pm?” My obvious response was: ”Of course Beethoven, count me and my empty stomach [in].” Wow, for me it was a liberation to skip my routine menu and eat something different.
The next day, I went to his house just in time. He received me joyfully as always and invited me to his room. It was a big room illuminated poorly, the walls were filled with books and a lamp defined his bed with intense brightness. Clearly, he was previously smoking and listening to music. He began to speak about the music that at that moment he was enjoying. Among other things, he told me: “There’s no other like Tchaikovsky. Do you know, Dominguitos, that he is the most representative Russian composer and perhaps the most creative musical author?”
“I don’t know too much of music,” I responded, “But surely enjoy deeply a few of his creations…” He interrupted me and started explaining how the author managed to infuse the theme with the help of the orchestra. At that moment I decided it was my turn to interrupt. My mind was wandering. I had been there for one hour and there were no signs of my invitation to eat. I was worried because in a few minutes I would have to take a bus to school. In the most friendly way that I was able to speak, I asked him: “Sorry to interrupt, but just want to remind you that you invited me to eat lunch at one and it’s going to be time to take the bus to school. What is on your mind?”
He incorporated himself with one jump and taking his right hand to his forehead said in a pleading manner: “Excuse me Dominguitos, I forgot about it! Oh, you have to accept my excuses, please! I feel very, very bad since I already ate!” Before I was able to respond to anything he took me by the arm and drew me in a hurry to the kitchen. “This has a solution!” he said. With a mastery I didn’t know Beto had, he lit the stove, placing on it a big frying pan with oil. Later, like a hurricane, he took from the refrigerator lots of groceries and began to cut in pieces onions, tomatoes, jalapenos, ham, among other things.
“I’m going to surprise you with my favorite creation: famous ‘Beto’s egg omelet,’ just you wait!!” With the same frenzy of a director in front of an orchestra he moved his arms and body cutting, throwing, mixing, seasoning. Very soon the food aroma and my hunger expanded my gastronomical experience in such a way that those scents were more vivid than Verdi’s operas in the Scala de Milan. I devoured ‘Beto’s special plate’ and immersed in my eating, could see Beto’s face shining with satisfaction. At the end of the meal, I told him: “Beto, my stomach and I are very pleased, thank you.” He saw me with a child-like glance. Smiling, he told me: “I’m glad you like it, in the future, I will not forget any of my invitations … promise.”