Nachos

Saturday, a little past noon. Four of us, one scorecard, and a friendship that has survived two weddings, one boat and a very bad fantasy football trade. My oldest friend Marco was up by a stroke on the 7th at PopStroke The Colony, standing over an eight-footer that broke hard left off a ridge like it had somewhere better to be.

He made it. Naturally.

I needed something to restore my faith in the universe. After the 9th we stepped off to the patio and I ordered. While we waited, Marco and I played a foosball grudge match. He won that too.

The best nachos of my life, and I have lived. A platter of crispy corn tortillas, piled high and unashamed. Queso poured over the top in slow, golden rivers. Fresh pico de gallo, bright as a beach umbrella. Jalapenos scattered like a dare. A cool pour of avocado lime crema, and a generous crown of guacamole, green as the fringe around the cup.

You can add chicken or seasoned beef. Marco wanted the beef. I wanted the chicken. We are, after all, rivals in all things.

Here is what nobody tells you about nachos at the turn: they make you generous. I offered Marco the chip with the most queso on it. He offered me a read on the 12th. Uphill, he said, and it barely moves. He was right.

I still lost by two. But I got the last chip, the one buried under the guacamole, and I never told him.