Is the place really homegrown if it doesn’t tell you “CASH ONLY” en el barrio?
Is the place really homegrown if it doesn’t have sharpie ink menus around the windows, written by glossy hands smeared of mazola?
Is the place really homegrown if not filled with Central American mamis throwing down in the kitchen igniting the comal with love
mixing masa with arms that jiggle with belly laughter that bounces off the walls?
I want my food homegrown,
from the hood by the hood, not these gentrified, overpriced, unseasoned places.
I want to hear an “¿Aha digame? si amorcito venga en unos 20 minutos” through the other line of the phone.
I want to walk into the warmth of burnt crispy queso, bubbling frijoles, and salty chorizo filling the room.
Let the place bring my parents back to their tierra for an hour or two
while they dine in and decompress from a long week of the hustle.
Let the place connect me to the motherlands
I decipher slang and dichos like a cryptic puzzle, piecing words together
like a Chicana and Los Angeles Central American baby that I am en el Norte.
Let the place be
I hope the place remains
homegrown places
for our brown babies to forever see
the same.
Picture taken at “Restuarante Hermano Centroamericano #1” in Mid-City and Arlington Heights, Los Angeles on September 11, 2022.