A Pandemic Ends. A Party Resumes.

Years ago, when Yvonne and I moved from L.A. to Nashville, we found that we missed Mexican food. We were delighted to discover, tucked between Vanderbilt University and Music Row, a place called San Antonio Taco Company. 

Satco, as we came to know it, featured homemade tortillas, good strong salsas, old-fashioned order pads with stubby pencils, and a specialty called a bucket of beer, consisting of enough bottled Coronas for an entire group. We spent many happy evenings on the broad wooden deck inhaling guacamole, chips, and other tasty dishes.

We were surprised to discover that some of our new Southern friends were unfamiliar with Mexican food. (This is hard to imagine today, as Nashville boasts dozens of Mexican restaurants and a large Mexican-American population.) What’s more, those friends had never heard of Cinco de Mayo, pronouncing it like the stuff you spread on sandwiches. 

We decided to do something about it, which is how our Cinco de Mayo party began.

The party started out small, with just a few friends who were known as the Cinco Seven. Each year the number grew, until soon we were hosting thirty people on our back deck, with food by Yvonne, guitar music by the terrific John Pell, and gallons of margaritas, topped off with tequila shooters. 

Seven years later, our daughter Maggie was born. Guess what her birth date was. That’s right: May 5th. 

Hello, birthday parties. Hasta la vista, Cinco celebrations 

And so it went until Maggie graduated from college. Then, for the next couple of years, the pandemic killed off party plans of any kind.

But in the spring of 2022, Covid had retreated, or at least we had learned to live with it. Yvonne looked at our lovely backyard, consulted some menus, and decided it was time to bring back the Cinco de Mayo party.

It turned out to be a gorgeous day. Maggie flew in from Chicago. Friends flocked to our house, including John Pell. We ate, drank, enjoyed the music, and visited. In the bright sunshine, the pandemic seemed like a bad dream.

We’re hoping it’s over. Maybe we can finally celebrate that milestone next May, sipping margaritas under a clear blue sky.