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He's not that crazy about other vegetables, either, but he admired the artful presentation of the vegetable quesadilla I had ordered as an appetizer: thick triangles swirled with a squiggle of chipolte mayonnaise and bursting with eggplant, peppers, onion and zucchini. It was delicious.
"Would you like to try one?" I asked.
"Crap, no," he said, lighting up another cigarette and scowling back at the nonsmoker at an adjoining table who was staring daggers at him. He then exhaled in her direction and smiled malevolently. "I like this place."
When dinner was served, Greg gulped down his cheese quesadilla (after assuring himself that there were no peas stuck in the melted cheese) while I lingered over the paper-thin slices of carne asada, grilled steak, heaped with sautéed onions and green and red peppers. The meat was tender and mildly spiced. Folded inside a soft flour tortilla, it made the most luscious kind of finger food. By the time I finished, Greg was impatiently looking over the dessert selection.
"You don't have flan?" he asked.
The waitress blushed and said, "No, we have sopaipillas. And fried ice cream."
It all sounded wonderful to me, but Greg grumbled. When the server walked away from the table, he whispered, "And I'll bet it all has peas in it."