“Excuse me, jefe?” asked the boorish patron, “Have you any authentic Cinco De Mayo dishes?”
“AMIGOS!” yelled the waiter, clapping his hands. “EL PUEBLA!” A 3-foot high tortilla was hurriedly delivered to the table.
A tiny flag reading “1862” stuck out, and tiny fanfare was heard. Tiny gunshots and explosions were heard from within the tortilla, spraying the patron with hot cheese and salsa.
A Harryhausen-like stampede of British bangers, emerald-green Spanish flies, and rivulets of Dijon mustard poured out of the tortilla, chased off the table and into the kitchen by routing hoards of tiny, ferocious tamales. As the smoke cleared, the tortilla lay there in shreds, spent by the tiny micro-war.
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“More mescal, señor?” asked the waiter.
“Leave the bottle,” replied the patron.
