More quiet beans for dinner

My New Mexico blood never left me. Its the only excuse I have in Marin County for being a frequent diner at a Mexican restaurant.
I like the half hour drive north. Since I don’t commute to and from my office, I am obligated to make those gas prices worth something. And it clears my head.
This Mexican Restaurant is my favorite. They made the mistake of treating me like family the day I walked in, so now it feels a little like home.
One of the owners is a car collector. He bullies me regularly with the ultimate compliment he is buying my 2002 ALMS cherry red Audi TT when I sell it or else. So I park right in front, walk in . . .
“no David, not selling”.
I checked this place out several years ago. There was a fountain in the front patio huge enough to be in Heaven.
I then walked over to a stainless steel pro BBQ grill that was loaded with oysters equally huge that reminded me of digging them up in Puget Sound during a daily sail. I was an instant regular customer when the other owner told me they were flown in from Seattle Fish twice a week.
The first few orders, after I emptied the shells, I would turn them over one by one and just look at them. It had been so long, but, no way was I going to walk out with any. That would put me right up there with the people who leave the Christmas lights up until June or load up the front yard with mollusk shards.
The bartender there is infamous. Not famous, infamous. He is the epic drink chef, remote TV operator, food server, order taker, substitute manager, dish busser, free entertainment, and waitress heckler.
He doesn’t cry. He only laughs. I come in crying, leave laughing.
Tonight David asks me what's new. I tell him I finished my website, finally rented my place in Park City, and started a blog.
“Really. What do you put in a blog?”
“Stories”.
“About what?”
“Rhinos”.
“?”
"I also wrote about a restaurant I went to, so maybe I will write about others.”
“Uh Oh.”