A rose by any other name would still prefer 'Dimitri'

"Hi, Mark. What'll ya have?" 

Julie had been saying the same thing for 25 years, every time I strolled through the doors of the Mexican restaurant she owned with her husband, Dale. She said it a lot because I ate there a lot; twice a week, at least.

Chico's was my kind of joint. Though it may have occasionally skirted to the edge of what the health department would tolerate, the food was great, the beer was cheap and the portions were behemothic. 

I had been going there since before my children, long since grown, were born. Chico's was the first restaurant my daughter was ever in. My son ate his first taco there. I had gone there on a regular basis with my first wife, my second wife, my third wife and a few girlfriends in-between.

I had celebrated birthdays there with large groups of friends. I had even been invited to join Julie's own birthday parties on two occasions and she had picked up my tab. I was more than a customer, I was a friend. 

And still, every time I walked through the door, Julie would greet me with a "Hi, Mark. What'll ya have?"

"The usual, Julie," I'd say. "And it's Mike. My name is Mike."

"Oh, right," she'd say. "Sorry." But the next time I would stop by, I'd be Mark again. Eventually, I just gave up and let Julie call me Mark. I've never been crazy about my name, anyway, though if if somebody's going to get it wrong, I'd prefer they call me Raúl or Dimitri. 

Something cool.

But to Julie, I was forever Mark.

Over the years, I watched their son, Johnny, grow from an infant to a young man and eventually become a father himself. Eventually, Julie and Dale decided they'd had enough of 15 hour days. They managed to find a buyer and they retired. I went to the big farewell party, a bittersweet experience. Sweet because the beer was free; bitter because it would be the last time it was.

I hugged Julie before leaving and told her how much I'd miss her. 

"I'll miss you, too, Mark," she said.

It was the last time I saw Julie or Dale. From what I hear, they moved back to Julie's hometown, somewhere in Mexico.

I found a new place to eat, though nobody there knew my name, be it Mike or Mark. At the new place, I was just another guy with an appetite.

Years passed. I was working at a newspaper up north and one day I got reminiscing with a co-worker on bars we had loved. This co-worker, it turned out, was Julie's niece.

"What?" I said. "Really? I loved Julie and Dale."

"Judy," said my co-worker.

"Huh?" I said.

"My aunt's name is Judy."

"Are you sure?"

She was. All those years she'd been calling me Mark, Judy had been trying to make a point and I'd missed it. It was her little joke, one that lasted 25 years.

So, wherever you are, Judy, Juarez or Tijuana, I hope this column eventually finds you. I still miss your hot sauce, your burritos, those great spicy carrots and peppers, and eating at a place where they knew my name after all, even if they chose to call me something else.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273