Noon was approaching one May Sunday when my husband and I found ourselves near one of his favorite Mexican restaurants in Downers Grove. Given the hour and the day, the place was mostly empty and the Hispanic woman behind the counter friendly and chatty.
As we got ready to pay, my husband realized his frequent-buyer card was in the car and hustled off to retrieve it. In his absence, I made idle chitchat with the woman.
“Were you busy on Cinco de Mayo?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said, rolling her eyes, “so busy.”
“You must not have gotten a chance to celebrate, then,” I said.
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“We celebrated the next day,” she responded, “just the family.” Then, leaning toward me over the register, she lowered her voice and added, “We went to Olive Garden.”