Chapter 10Although we were smack dab in the middle of nowhere—the nearest city of any decent size was Memphis, about ninety minutes away for those who drive fast—we still had the good fortune of having an excellent Mexican restaurant in Port Moss. Called El Bravo, the restaurant was owned and operated by Mexican immigrants. The interior was bright and colorful and the Mexican music playing in the background had its own charms. It wasn’t the cleanest or most stylish place, but what showed up on one’s plate was nothing less than ambrosia delivered by culinary gods.
When the edge on our appetites had been dealt with, I said, “So you think you could be happy in a place like Port Moss? Seems like you would get bored.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What are you, like, fourteen or something?”
“I’m
