Once they could consider the place their own, my grandfather closed the café and placed a large sign in the front window that
warned everyone that Ruby’s café was now under new management. In that week, they had the exterminator come in and rid
the place of the rats and roaches that had taken up residence at the café. When the place was deemed rat and roach free, my
grandfather enlisted the help of all of his daughters and grandchildren.
I remember the days of busy activity. While I was sitting and doing my daily homework, my aunties, mother and grandmother
were busy cleaning the café. The clatter and clang of wrenches echoed over the women’s voices as my grandfather was busy
fixing the plumbing, pipes and stove. When the place had been cleaned from top to bottom, the look of satisfaction and pride
was only outdone on the day that they hung the shingle with the new name of the café.
El Matador, the bull fighter. This was a name that my grandparents hoped would change the image of the once filthy café.
Inside, my grandparents hung decorations from Mexico, the familiar green poncho hung on the wall opposite of the wall that
had a picture of a Spanish bull fighter. Having a large family meant that my grandfather was able to enlist the help of his
grown daughters. Those who did not have babies at home helped their parents by acting as waitress in the café. Throughout
the week, my cousins and brother traded days as bus boys in the evening and even though I wanted to help, I was deemed
too young to do anything except to clean the restrooms right before I sat down with my homework.
With a full staff, my grandfather opened the café even though he was not certain if their idea would be successful in the all
Anglo community. When the customers were greeted by my grandfather and all of his daughters, word soon spread of the
family owned business. In no time, the place became crowded with curious visitors all wondering what was new at the former
Ruby’s Café.
“Why Mr. Castillo, you really did a good job of painting the walls,” one customer had said as he sipped my grandmother’s
fresh brewed coffee while he waited for his huevos ranchero breakfast.
“Paint? We didn’t paint anything… why, let me tell you, Mr. Jones, that beautiful wall is what we found when we scrubbed
the walls clean! Imagine our surprise to find white walls! Why, we all thought that the walls were painted yellow!” grandpa
explained with a slight accent and a knowing grin. Understanding his unspoken words, Mr. Jones merely shook his head and
muttered, “That Ruby!” under his breath with a chuckle.
Within a month of opening to the public, the county health inspector arrived with surprising news. The black suited inspector
swept into the restaurant armed with a black bag filled with glass bottles, rubber gloves, and tweezers. His stony expression
was softened by the thin mustache he had below a beak nose. With each glance through the place, his mannerism began to
change until he was smiling and laughing with my grandfather. It was at this time that my grandfather learned of Ruby’s
sudden need to sell her café. Under threat from the health department, they were told to either clean up the place or risk
being closed down for health reasons. The inspector was not only surprised at the cleanliness of the place, but that all of it
had been accomplished in such a short time. Once the health permit from City Hall was in my grandfather’s hand, he had
promised the inspector that he would never find the place lacking as long as he was the owner. The thin man gave a hearty
laughed and shook my grandfather’s hand all the while calling him “Mr. Castillo” just before he left.
The main staple of every meal at El Matador were fresh, home made tortillas, however, white bread was always kept on hand
for the customers who preferred it and despite the lessons that Ruby tried to impose, my grandmother vowed to never reuse
uneaten food. But this was never a problem because it was rare that a plate returned to the kitchen with food remaining. In
the morning, El Matador served hearty plates of Mexican breakfasts, at lunch, they closed the café to prepare for the dinner
crowd, and by the time they opened in the evening, the customers were already lined at the door.
The combination of my grandfather’s easy going, jovial mannerisms, combined with my grandmother’s artistry in the kitchen
soon made the café the favorite place to eat in town. No longer did I have to walk past Ruby’s café to go to my
grandmother’s home. Instead, I would sit in a booth with my books open as my mother waited on tables. At the end of the
day, after having a good dinner, we would walk home to join my brother and father.
For a time, everything was perfect. Although my mother was more tired than she had ever been at any other job, she knew
that the rewards were just around the corner. At times when it was slow, my grandfather would sit and talk to me.
“Meja,” he used the term of endearment, “You keep studying because some day, I will need you to look after this place.
You need to go to school and learn business and bookkeeping, and I’m going to pay for it, for you and all your cousins. No
one in my family will be like me, you understand?” he would ask in a serious tone that brought an obedient nod from me.
“Good, because someday, I’m going to have a whole bunch of El Matador’s across the country, and me and your grandma,
we’re going to retire in Mexico and let you kids take care of your own place. So you study hard and pay attention in school,”
he would say before returning to the front counter.
As the months flew by, we never saw Mr. Ruby or his acrid wife, Ruby. No one ever asked about them and after awhile, we
began to believe that they had truly gone away to retire for good. But like a tornado setting down unexpectedly, Ruby came
barreling into the front door after nearly a year’s absence. Dressed in new clothes, and wearing a pill box hat, the large
woman walked heavily into the café. With a sour expression, she glanced around the restaurant, her scowl resting
momentarily on the various items from Mexico before turning to my grandfather.
“I have to hand it to you wetbacks, you managed to keep it open longer than I thought you could,” her tone was harsh as she
reached into a new black purse and pulled out a legal document. “I want the remaining sum of the mortgage,” her voice was
harsh.
“B-But… we don’t have it!” I heard my grandfather explain as he waved his hands around the café, “we put all of our loans
into fixing this place up. Mr. Ruby said we would have two years before it was due,” he tried to remind the woman.
“Two years, or upon demand, and I’m demanding it, so pay up now,” she smiled knowingly. At my grandfather’s silence, she
arched a penciled brow, “No? I don’t suppose you have it right now, do you,” she smirked.
“In that case, here you go, you’ve got until the end of the week to vacate this place,” she said as she handed the legal papers
to my grandfather.
Shocked and confused, my grandfather opened the paper, but was unable to read it. My grandmother, hearing the
commotion, left the kitchen to stand by my grandfather’s side. With brows creased, she read over my grandfather’s shoulder
as Ruby only smiled and turned to leave.
“Remember, the end of the week and I want you all out of here!” she shouted over her shoulder as the door slammed behind
her, leaving confused customers eating their early dinners.
Nothing like this had ever happened to my grandfather, so it took a few minutes before he comprehended her words. When
it settled in, he called my father and asked for his help in understanding the papers. After reading and rereading the legal
documents, my father finally conceded that he was not certain and with the help of a friend, they found a lawyer who could
understand what was happening.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Castillo,” the young man, not quiet a lawyer, said as he sat in a booth in the restaurant the next day. “If
you had only come to me, or someone else who was qualified, to read this for you, they would have caught this clause,” the
man said as he sighed and ran his fingers through his short, crew cut hair. “I wish I knew what to tell you. You could fight it,
hire a lawyer,” the man offered.
Without realizing it, the young man had deflated all hopes that my grandfather had left. He had used all of the funds that he
borrowed to refurbish the café. Even after spending an entire day walking through the city from attorney to attorney, they had
all deemed it a hopeless case that they would have little chance of winning, even if my grandfather could afford to pay their
fees. He had not only signed the contract in public, but he shook hands on the deal in front of witnesses. This alone was
enough to deem it a hopeless case.
In defeat, after nearly a year as an entrepreneur, my grandparents packed up their personal items from El Matador. The
remaining food, they separated amongst their daughters. Within a day of leaving the café, the shingle proclaiming Rube’s Café
was returned to the chain links above the door and although Ruby never went back to working in the restaurant, her newly
graduated son took over the managing of the café.
