Salsa Vegetables. Salsa Vegetables. Salsa Vegetables.
The label on the door ricocheted through Mr. Choy’s mind. Why would this restaurant have a refrigerator for vegetables, especially “Salsa Vegetables?” Any reasonable vegetable would know that a refrigerator is for food, not for relatives. The only ‘salsa’ that Mr. Choy had ever heard of was the dancing, and this puzzled him further. A refrigerator was most definitely not a prime location for dancing.
As he was wondering about the cryptic message on the door of the refrigerator, the manager stepped over to it.
“I’ll show you how to make some of the most popular dishes now so that you’ll know when you start,” said the rutabaga, undoing several thick padlocks on the front of the thick steel door. He turned a final key, and, spinning a large wheel that looked to be stolen from a bank vault, opened the refrigerator door.
He pulled out a bag and started taking out chunks of red and green and white things. “These are the ingredients for our special salsa,” he said. “This is tomato imported from Tijuana, some peppers from La Paz, some onions from Mexico City, and some cilantro from Cancun. We take all of these and put them in the chopping machine here and press the green button.” He proceeded to place the different colored pieces in the machine and pressed the green button. The colored pieces flew and blurred together in the machine.
“This is terrible,” Mr. Choy thought. “These are just poor Mexicans being chopped up for us to eat! What kind of place is this?”
“So these are Mexican vegetables?” Mr. Choy asked.
“They certainly are” replied the rutabaga. “We have offices there, and whenever they come in for interviews we cut them up and ship them to all the franchise holders. That's why we're called the 'Mexican Grill.'”
“And that’s how you make the salsa?” asked Mr. Choy.
“Yes, but the key,” the rutabaga continued, ”is to combine the ingredients as quickly as possible so that they do not warm before being chopped. It prevents the customers from smelling the onion. We also need to add the special secret ingredient.”
He pulled a key from a key ring and unlocked a door in the back of the refrigerator. A cowering mass of green was lying prone in one corner. “Jalepeño from Mexico,” explained the rutabaga. “They’re much better fresh… very fresh.”
He moved toward the shaking pepper in the corner, withdrawing a shiny peeler from his rootstock.
“I think I need a day or so to think this over,“ said Mr. Choy, inching toward the door.
“You look like you could become one of our new specials,” mused the rutabaga, “I do hope you don't smoke.”
“I’ll be leaving now,” said Mr. Choy, opening the door from the kitchen.
“Don’t go now,” the Rutabaga said, “You’ve seen our secret ingredient. If this information gets out into the general public this business will be ruined! The Mexican Rights groups will descend on us like hornets! Even worse, our competitors could get the recipes and make their own versions of our salsa!”
But Mr. Choy didn’t hear the end of the Rutabaga’s speech. He had already taken off running. “Enough with the job search,” he thought, “I'll go home and be happy with my shredded wheat!”
To be continued…
