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| - This is not a great restaurant, but I am fond of this place.
It can be loud and the chairs are cheap. Tables are too close together and sometimes wobble. But I am fond of it.
Mi Patio doesnt lure hordes of foodie hipsters like El Bravo or Carolinas and the simple Sonoran fare is not remarkably better than Carlos O'Brien's - yet I bristle at Carlos and cop an irrational, almost paternal sentiment towards this place.
I am fond of Mi Patio because this is the home of nice, hardworking people - and whether they know it or not, their familiar routines and personal instincts comfort me. The way the old man greets us too loudly before the front door shuts completely behind us. The way the server seamlessly catches my eye and beckons us to follow him to a back table. The way you needn't ask the price of recited "specials" because Mi Patio is devoid of deception. The way tortillas, wrapped in tin foil, invariably stay hot through your meal. The way mistakes are courteously corrected without self conscious indignation or crocodile fawning amok in "better" restaurants. The way someone, somewhere, is laughing. The way the old man looks in your eye when he asks how your meal was. The way he notices how tall your kid's grown, even though you only make it in two or three times a year. The way I have enough cash to cover the bill. The way we take leftovers home and enjoy them that night.
Growing up in the Camelback corridor, my son has been weaned on corporate and chain restaurants, many of which are quite good. But none of them send him home with cheap bubblegum or a corny riddle, or dare toussle his hair. One day, when my son is my age, this restaurant and the old men - both of us - will be gone. Perhaps the restaurant name will be lost to memory. But I hope he associates unpretentious decency and a quirky tenderness with Mi Patio - enough to look back and say, "I was fond of that place."
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