Penny’s Place stood out like a mirage in the West Texas desert.  Terlingua was known for abandoned mines, an annual chili cookoff, and little else. Only a handful of outlaws and weirdos actually lived  there: the rest were Big Bend tourists, stopping by for a cold beer, warm bed or hot shower. 

 

A gas station/grocery store, a smattering of motels, one or two sketchy-looking watering holes and… lo and behold, Penny’s Place, rising freshly painted from the endless dust. 

 

Miguel immediately noticed the New Mexico-style wreath of chile ristras hanging above the entrance. They were the kind his mother lined his home with as a boy in Las Cruces. 

 

A small, silver bell rang cheerfully as he opened the door: the air hung with a spicy, warm scent. An older, hippieish woman looked up from her perch from the corner of the bar and flashed a smile. She was nursing a cup of coffee in one hand and painting a wildly colorful, slightly surreal landscape with the other. Upon seeing Miguel, she put her paintbrush down and waived him over. “Have a seat!” she said, gesturing to the stool next to her.

 

He had been planning on settling into a more private location. One of the empty booths, perhaps.  But this grinning, wiry woman, with wild salt-and-pepper hair and a turquoise squash blossom necklace, appeared to be the only person in this tiny diner. He figured she was his best shot for a tasty, hot meal in this strange place.

 

And so Miguel saddled up to the counter and took off his hat. She tilted her work in progress his way. “Whatcha think?”, she asked simply. 

 

He paused.  It made him think of what Salvador Dali might have painted, had he lived in West Texas. Shadows of cacti stretched into dark, ominous figures. Ghosts of vaqueros past evaporated off of highways. A glimpse of a roadrunner sped by in a colorful whirl. 

 

“I’m not much of an art critic, ma'am,” Miguel replied, polite but curt.  

 

“Well, that’s quite beside the point” she muttered, almost to herself, before re-establishing her unwavering eye contact. “No matter,” she sighed, standing up to retrieve a menu from behind the counter.

 

“ The lady of the house has taken a brief reprieve from the daily grind.” She paused, glancing at Miguel, who inspected the menu with a furrowed brow. “So this week’s special is my ninera’s Menudo. I make it every time Penny goes out of town,” she added, waving to a simmering Dutch oven on the backburner of the open-air kitchen.  

 

Menudo! So that’s what Miguel had smelled walking in. He slapped his menu down decisively. “Twist my arm. Menudo and a Topo Chico is just what the doctor ordered.”

 

The woman smiled broadly.  “Good, because my coffee isn’t as good as Penny’s,” she said with a wink. She offered her hand to Miguel. “Jo,” she said, by way of an introduction.  “To whom do I owe the pleasure? I don’t see a lot of new faces around here, and you don’t seem like the tourist type.” 

 

“Miguel,” he responded, shaking Jo’s hand. When working (and he was always working), he usually used an alias, but something about this place warmed him up inside.  In most towns, staying anonymous was easy.  People were so wrapped up in their own business that they hardly noticed a fresh face. If they did, it came from a place of hesitation and hostility.

 

To meet not one, but two people – in a row, no less – who seemed genuinely eager to engage with him was entirely unheard of. It caught Miguel by surprise. 

 

Still, he didn’t like to show all of his cards. He left the introduction at that: honest but concise. 

 

“Man of few words, I see,” remarked Jo. “Not a problem. I’ll probably talk enough for the both of us. But first, let’s set you up with a bowl.”

 

She grabbed a Topo Chico from the cooler behind the bar, prying off its tin cap and handing it to Miguel. He took to working on his latest whittling project while she set the “table,” laying out two crisp checkered cloths and a large soup spoon.  Perhaps if he averted eye contact and kept his hands busy, he’d be able to avoid any further prying questions. 

 

It seemed to work, at least for a moment. Jo quietly hummed a song on the turntable (Had he gone back in time? Who even owned turntables anymore?) And ladled out two steaming bowls of menudo. One she placed in front of Miguel, the other where she had been sitting.

 

“ I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” she said.  “I just realized that I haven’t eaten at least 12 hours. Got caught up in the painting.”

 

“Bit of a one track mind?” he asked, taking a sip of the stew.  It was brothy, fatty, spicy.  Odds and ends floated to the top – a tendon here, a piece of tripe there.   

 

“People say that like it's a bad thing.  I feel blessed to have something I care about, even if it does drive me a little mad.” She pointed to the soup. “How is it?” she asked

 

“Not to be rude, but I’m surprised a white woman made it.”

 

Jo threw her head back in roaring laughter. It shook the tiny diner. “I may look like a Woodstock reject, but I was raised by a Mexican woman who was kind enough to share her secrets.”

 

“Where are you from?” asked Miguel

 

“Taos,” she said. It added up: the ristras in the entryway, her turquoise jewelry, the delicious menudo. A small smile crept across his face.

 

“You’ll have to come visit us around Christmas. My tamales are to die for.” 

 

The two sat silent for a few moments, slurping contentedly until their bowls went dry. He leaned back and patted his stomach while Jo cleared the table. “Seconds?” she asked before taking his plate away.  

 

“Now you really sound like my tia,” he replied.  “No, I think another bowl might put me under for the afternoon.”

 

“What do you do that’s so important, then?” she said, gesturing to his carving. “That’s a beautiful cross. I thought you said you didn’t know anything about art.”

 

“One question at a time, auntie!” Miguel joked.  “I just like to keep my hands busy. “

 

Jo nodded. “Oh, I get it. I’ve been ‘just keeping my hands busy’ for 60 years.”

 

“You don’t look a day over fifty.” Though the desert made most people look older, the sun seemed to have preserved Jo’s youthful spirit. 

 

She rolled her eyes.  “You’re either flattering me or hitting on me, and either way I’m not interested.” She shook a napkin at Miguel playfully. “Besides, you’re evading the question!”

 

“Evading questions is a big part of what I do for a living.” He picked up the crucifix.  “This little thing is for my mother.  My sister passed about ten years ago, and we make them in her memory. To decorate the ofrenda.”

 

“My condolences,” said Jo, her blue eyes piercing like an endless ocean.  “Art is my faith.  I understand how it can help heal.”

 

She untied her apron and handed Miguel the check.  “I knocked $2 off. For dealing with the nosy old lady behind the counter.”

 

He paid, adding the two dollars on top of the tip.  “I’d like to come back for some more menudo and to see what progress you’ve made,” he said.  “How long will you be here?”

 

“Well, Penny’s at the Big Bend Ranch with her new beau. Dashing cowboy named Sam Nail came and swept her off her feet. I’d never come back if I was her. She said it would be about a week, though.”

 

Miguel tipped his hat as he opened the door. “Well, I reckon that’s just how long I’ll be around town, Miss Jo,” he said, stepping into the desert sun.