The family sat around a circular table. The restaurant was housed in one of the old turn-of-the-century houses that populate downtown Guadalajara. The houses, characterized by sumptuous gardens, elongated floor-to-ceiling windows, high ceilings and sweeping staircases are reminiscent of French and Spanish architecture. The exterior design looks like a defensible castle of the proper stature for a Baron, maybe a Viscount but certainly not an Earl.
The family comes here often, they have a regular table.
The place is full. The muted clang of silverware on Spanish China join the symphony of sounds in the restaurant - a bossa nova version Guns'N'Roses, hushed conversations and politicians laughing. And the restaurant, much like the city is built on politicians.
How to spot a politician: Brooks Brothers suit, cuff links and laughter. The top button on their shirt is undone.
The family son checks the safety, returns a meaningful look at his father and smiles at his cousin's joke.
1, 2, 3 bodyguards inside. Discrete gray polyester blend suits slightly wide at the shoulders to avoid showing the tell-tale gun-holster. Same, standard issue haircut popular among them. They probably call themselves close-protection officers and pride themselves in noticing small and irrelevant details. 10 steps to the door, principal is 20 steps away. Some of them might even read 10 peso cop novels and picture themselves valiantly loading the principal into a bullet-proof car as they return cover fire.
The men outside have an obvious military stance - something no amount of tailoring can detail away.
At least two of them have no military training. One of them has ordered soup. The other has a pillar in his line of sight to his charge. They're probably disposable John Does picked up from the wrong side of the tracks. The promise of a pay check, a suit and a gun go a long way in this country.
Eveyrone in the family knows what this is about. They no longer wonder at the private security pick-up truck outside labeled "Seguridad Privada" obviously weighed down by armored metal. All family members are wearing hunting ear plugs and continue on with their lunch of Vizcaine salmon. The capers are particularly good this year.
A quick trip to the bathroom reveals 2 more men outside.
Would you like a bottle of wine sir? Yes, says the father, '97 Gran Coronas.
This is the height of this city's society - carefully protected by "trained" men. The innocent couple in the far left corner of the restaurant has a moment of understanding. They grasp the situation they are in and understand where the city money goes. She smiles at their predicament. He brought her here to celebrate his promotion - he is now head of human resources for the state police.
Drinks come to the table, courtesy of the owner who knows the family. They patriarchs play golf together Saturday mornings. Ellios the Spaniard they call him. He retains an air of Spanish aristocracy that 50 years of Mexican bureaucracy have failed to expunge. He has the Spanish and Mexican flag hang side by side in the center of the room. He understands who the Saint Peters of his culinary church are and does the round. A cursory pat on the bank, a snap at the waiter to bring more wine, kiss on the cheek for the wife or mistress and a sincere thanks.
Some countries are built on the foundation of revolutionary ideas or guns. This was a country built on the bellies of politicians.
The family pays the check, waits for the sons go ahead and leaves.
Just another day in Paradise.
wonderful.
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