he New Manuel

By Kevin Grauke

The New Manuel

For years, Del Gilly, the sheriff of Yonder, ate lunch at Manuel’s El Rancho Grande every day of the week except Sundays, which was when he ate at his mother’s. Against a wall gussied up with sombreros, serapes, and bandoliers, he sat at a tiny table by himself because he liked to read while he chewed. Some folks accused him of being hoity-toity because of this custom, but he was friendly enough the rest of the time, as they well knew. It seemed he just liked taking a little time for himself in the middle of the day to relax to relax with good books on military campaigns of the Civil War, mostly the successful Southern ones like the Battles of First and Second Manassas, seeing as how he was pretty sure that Stonewall Jackson was an ancestor of his.

The Manuel of Manuel’s always made sure that Del’s plate was piping hot (“plato ca-liente, señor, cuidadoso”) and ready for him just as soon as the man loosened his duty belt and eased himself into his chair. Del ate the same meal everyday: chicken enchiladas with mole poblano sauce, borracho beans, rice, a double side of guacamole, and a tall glass of unsweetened iced tea. Like some sort of big-city connoisseur, he like to tell everyone that Manuel made the best mole poblano sauce he’d ever tasted—just the perfect balance of spicy chile heat and chocolate sweetness.

Even though he never saw Manuel anywhere outside of the restaurant, Del always referred to Manuel as his friend. In fact, he said that one year he’d once even considered inviting him to his annual party the night before the Texas-OU Red River Shootout, but because he’d worried that his friend might feel uncomfortable being the only one of his sort there, he didn’t. Besides, he added, what was Manuel famous for? Never taking a day off and never closing El Rancho Grande’s doors, not even on Christmas Day. So, there’d been no way he would’ve ever come anyway.

Needless to say, when El Rancho Grande’s doors were discovered locked, folks were caught off guard. They all pulled on the door a second and a third time just to make sure. Nope, it was locked. At first, it was assumed that he’d finally given himself a short holiday, but after a week passed and there was still not even a scribbled note of explanation on the door, a few began to grumble, especially the folks who worked there. Despite being fairly sure that he’d been born in Texas, some wondered if he’d returned to Mexico—voluntarily or otherwise—the land of his true people, as some said. Or maybe he’d run afoul of some bad hombres, like Los Zetas. Regardless, Del had no choice but to move his lunch business to Ivory’s (even though he’d always said that Ivory’s wife cut him less brisket than everyone else) while he waited for El Rancho Grande’s doors to swing open and fill the air with Tejano music again.

When the doors finally did swing open again two weeks later, Del walked in and took his regular seat, ready to give it to Manuel with both barrels, as he told folks later. When he saw his usual mole enchiladas appear before him, he looked up the arm setting it down and opened his mouth to demand Manuel tell him where the hell he’d been for fourteen dadgum days, and that’s when he saw that it wasn’t Manuel who’d brought him his lunch at all. No, it was a fella he’d never seen before—not bussing tables at Manuel’s, not grease-monkeying at Guy’s, not digging post holes for whomever, not anywhere. Not all that kindly, Del asked him who the hell he was and where the hell was Manuel.

“Manuel is no longer here. My name is Roberto, and I’m now the Manuel of Manuel’s El Rancho Grande.”

Louder this time, Del asked him again where the hell his friend Manuel was.

“No lo sé. But don’t worry, sir, because I know what you like. And I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.” He pointed to Del’s chicken enchiladas with mole poblano sauce. “Please. If you don’t mind. Taste.”

Del grunted with displeasure, but then he tasted. And what he later told everyone was that the new Manuel’s mole poblano sauce was even better, more complex, than the old Manuel’s. More “nuanced,” he said, because he’d made it known that his daughter, who lived somewhere that wasn’t Texas, gave him a subscription to Bon Appetit every Christmas. The chile was warmer, the chocolate richer.

“Well done, Manuel. Esto es muy delicioso.”

And so, soon enough, Del forgot the first Manuel’s wheezing laugh, the pale scar on his left hand, and the way he’d snap his service towel like a matador. Soon enough, it was as if there’s never not been but one Manuel. Because that’s just how it was with Sheriff Del Gilly, not to mention most of the rest of Yonder, when it came to good folks like Manuel.

Kevin Grauke is the author of Shadows of Men (Queen's Ferry Press), winner of the Steven Turner Award from the Texas Institute of Letters. His fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared (or are forthcoming) in journals such as The Threepenny Review, Bayou, The Southern Review, Quarterly West, and Columbia Journal. He’s a Contributing Editor at Story, and he teaches at La Salle University in Philadelphia. Twitter: @kevingrauke