At El Chicharrón, very nice croquetas, tacos de dorado and a glass of albariño. I sat outside, in the restaurant's terrace facing la plaza de La Placita. Three big good looking guys got off a taxi, spoke both English and Spanish, USA Ricans, towels around their necks, shorts, sandals, just off the beach (La Placita is not a beach area bar and restaurant scene; is more of a pasarela for the latest Nono Maldonado or Capri pants a la Capri Dept Store in Rio Piedras), a little abrasive in their manners when sitting down and talking to the young waiter. Right before I was leaving, one of them pointed at me and said, “have a Medalla”. On him, I was flattered. He looked so proud, inviting a local old man, ethnic pride, to a Medalla. I smiled openly and thanked him many times in Spanish, with hands waving, very criollo. And then, on my way out, I stopped by their table, expressed the usual “buen provecho”, and they looked at me smiling, so happy, so in in the scene, welcomed to a place that has more meanings to them that can be decoded by a Medalla (I hate light beers; for identity points and airs of “Gourmentsindo”, I rather have a Barrilito). Iconic brands become unimportant when three good looking guys invite an old gay man to a beer, to celebrate whatever they were so happy about, and they were; and safe. The usual and caring “buen provecho” always makes a difference. Had they known I was gay, maybe we had a different story, but that is not the point, nor it would have allowed for a "buen provecho" ending.
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