“No, it definitely tastes better.” I gasp. “Does pan dulce count as candy?”
“Obviously, pan dulce does not count as candy.”
“You never know. ‘Dulce’ and all.”
The food arrives. By the time we’re done eating, I’m convinced: This is agreatchoice as far as favorite restaurant in LA goes. It isn’t just the food, though the food is admittedly great. The wholeatmosphereis a vibe. I feel comfortable, like I could come here every day and feel at home, as weird as that might be to say about a diner. A good part of it has to do with the fact that the people at the tables on both sides of us are speaking Spanish.
“What are you thinking?”
I shrug, unsure if it’s an odd train of thought, and say, “I might really like Van Nuys.”
“I love the Valley,” he says. “It feels like home. Not like—I mean, technically, home is New Jersey, but it never felt like it. The Valley feels how I imagine home is supposed to feel.”
I realize I don’t know where Alex’s home was in 2026. Strange. Usually, that’s the first thing an Angeleno will tell you, right before we complain about the traffic.
“That’s how I feel about the east side. Just this sense of belonging. It’s funny. I don’t even speak Spanish, but whenever I hear it, it’s… comforting. I’ve always wanted to learn, but I don’t really have a knack for languages,” I admit.
“I could teach you,” he offers.
“I didn’t know you were fluent.”
“Fluentis a stretch. My mom is from Mexico, but my siblings and I spoke English growing up. My dad’s from New York, and he insisted we speak English at home. I felt like…” He trails off, searching for the words. “Like my mom was always working overtime to speakhislanguage, meet him onhisterms. Eventually, I realized that was bullshit. So I learned.”
“Just like that, you learned a second language?” I laugh; hewouldmake it sound easy.
“I wouldn’t say it wasjustlike that. It took a lot of studying. Practicing with my mom while she struggled not to laugh at my terrible pronunciation. But I really wanted to learn. It was a small thing, to give her the comfort of her first language back.”
“That’s not a small thing,” I murmur.
“The weird thing is, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to gain more sympathy for my dad—even though he’s the last person who deserves it. I just think… everything he did, all the things that made him such a terrible father—the gambling, the leaving, even the coming back—stemmed from a place of self-hatred. How can you be a good father, a good husband, when you hate yourself? It’s possible, probably, but harder, for sure.”
“Why do you think your dad hates himself?” I ask, leaning forward. And I hate that I think this, but part of me wonders if there’s a similarity between Alex and his father. Two very different men, but both bad at marriage. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that self-loathing is the root of Alex’s flaws—his greed, his cheating, his arrogance.
“Oh, a load of reasons. Toxic masculinity. Internalized racism. Generational trauma. The usual.” He pauses, then continues, “My dad has a Chicano accent. Not thick or anything, but I remember one time, I was six—maybe seven—and this guy in a store acted like he couldn’t understand what my dad was saying. Called him a stupid immigrant.
“My dad was furious—he covered emotions like shame and embarrassment with anger. And I remember I brushed it off so easily, becauseIknew and my father knew that he wasn’t an immigrant, he was as American as that other guy. And I thought,Man, look how dumb that guy looks. And I also thought,I’m glad it didn’t happen to my mother, who actuallyisan immigrant.
“But for my father, insults like that work exactly like they’re meant to. That guy didn’t care about my dad’s birthplace, he just saw a man with brown skin and wanted him to know he wasn’t welcome.
“So as much as I hate that he forbade us to speak Spanish in the house, when I think of it in the context of comments like that, I get it.
“I’m not excusing him. Because many people—millions of people—have dealt with the same shit he did and not allowed it to turn them into awful people. But I do get it. You know, he’s the reason my name’s Alexander. My mom wanted to name me Alejandro, but he insisted. He won, but nine times out of ten, my mom calls me Alejandro anyway.”
Even though the topic is serious, I smile.
“My entire extended family ignores the fact that my name is Josephina. They pronounce it in Spanish, like Josefina. Joey who?”
We both laugh, and once the laugher fades, I ask the question that’s been bothering me throughout dinner.
“Is your father the reason you didn’t have Mexican candy growing up?”
It says something about how much the tension has eased that Alex laughs instead of closing up again.
“Yeah. He said Mexican candy had lead in it and would poison us.”
Oh. Well, shit.
“Okay, so, I’m not, like,defendingyour dad or anything, but technically, he was right. Idoremember hearing as a kid that a lot of the candy had lead in it.”
