Last week I met my friend Richard
Pulley for dinner at Spanish Village.
And for a brief moment, time stood
still.
In the ever changing landscape of Houston,
Spanish Village has survived for over fifty years.
I first went to the Village when I was
married to Mr. Barnhill. The garage
doors opening onto Almeda Street were open.
Accustomed to El Paso Mexican cuisine, I was appalled when my chile
relleno came out in a green bell pepper instead of a poblano.
A few years later, after I left Mr.
Barnhill, I rediscovered Spanish Village.
I can no longer remember if I first re-visited the Village with Richard’s wife
Marguerite for a working lunch or if it was the day Marguerite found me an
apartment in the inner city. That day,
John Chambless drove us to the Village in a very cool car.
What I do remember are the
conversations & companionship, the insane consumption of margaritas, the waiters recognizing us
by name & knowing our standard orders.
And Richard cutting us off, because he said he could handle one of us,
just not both.
So Richard was in town on business,
preparing to go to Iraq, assuring me it was in the no-fly zone. And we met at Spanish Village.
Richard was raised in Houston &
first went to the Village in 1958. I
know this because he told me the story of how his father & mother went with
Richard & Marguerite for dinner at the Village. The waiters waxed poetic over Richard &
Marguerite.
Dr. Pulley’s response: I brought
you here in 1958.
This is what happens at the
Village. People share stories. I spoke of my efforts at a garden. Richard spoke of gophers, & his frustration at gardening.
Sitting there, sampling the salsa I
remembered, talking with Richard, I was happy that the Village is part of my
past & my present.
For Richard, it was a taste of home in
a city that changes daily.
For me, it was a part of my
experience, my history, my story that I refuse to let go.
As are Richard & Marguerite.
