And everyone was Mexican for a night.

"Katie! No dishwasher hoy!"

It was Spanglish. The upside-down exclamation point preceding it was audible nonetheless.

"Saul!" I chided. (His name is pronounced "sa-OOL," but just because I know that doesn't mean I can articulate anything like the upside-down exclamation point that goes with it.) "You can't go!"

But Saul was kidding, and we both knew it. He would never really go. He was the only Mexican on the schedule at the Green Iguana for the night of Cinco de Mayo, keeping the rest of us on the level. And he was on top of the world, it seemed, running his dishwasher while the gringos on the line made taquitos and chimichangas and black bean soup. Every time I ducked into the kitchen we greeted each other with a raucous, "Viva Mexico!"

Saul and I talked for the first time months ago when I traveled right past his dish station with a full bus tub of dirty plates, and had to stop myself and come back. He was waiting for me, eyebrows raised. Flustered, I told him I'd been taking out the trash, when I realized I didn't have trash in my hands, but a bus tub. I told him this, in Spanish.

The cat was out of its proverbial bag. I know about as much Spanish as Saul knows English, which isn't much for either of us. He can ask me how I'm doing, and I can tell him I'm tired, and I can ask the same and he'll tell me he's bored. It's more than he can say to most people, and he says it to me.

Before the night was over, I talked the Corona Lite promo guys into giving me a Corona Lite hat. I gave it to Saul.