Mexican and Motherhood: Beach Burrito

Date of Last Visit: A while ago.

The Victim: My ovaries.

Truth be told, I don’t actually write about everywhere I eat.  There are two main reasons why:

• If you knew how often I visited the Chinese take-away next door, well, you’d doubt me completely. (But it is very good. Really. And the Bangladeshi next door to the Chinese is even better–and they wave at me when I walk by.)

• Some stories are better left untold.

But during a recent dinner with Jess of RipeLondon at (where else but) Vinoteca, we swapped our tales of love found, love lost, and well, love stumbling and tripping flat on its face in the back lanes and alleyways of our adopted home-country and hometown. These are tales of boys behaving badly in new restaurants, old haunts, over gourmet meals and/or gourmet burgers; they are stories of candlelight, Carlings, take-aways, long walks on short piers and Fellini films. Tales you want to share, but yet you don’t. Because you wonder–writing this honestly–if it’s them or if it’s you. Por ejemplo…

I am out with a certain boy. We are at Beach Burrito in Soho. The food is inexpensive, delicious, and near and dear to my heart. (Mexican, although Tex-Mex is probably more apt.) I have the chicken quesadilla and I am enjoying myself. Until…

Him: “So I have to tell you something.”
Me: “Sure, shoot.”
Him: “I really want to have children.”
Me: (Not sure where this is going.) “Well, me too. I mean right now would be a little not right…but eventually.”
Him: “Right, but I’m a little worried about you. I mean, you’re what? 33?”
Me: “Well, almost 33 yes.”
Him: “I mean, at your age…your fertility is decreasing nearly every single day. With each passing moment, more and more of your eggs are dying. Your ovaries are drying up. Seriously, the chances of you having children at this age are really slim.”
Me: (Deep breath. Staying calm.) “Umm…that’s not true. I have a friend who just had a baby at 43…and my mom had my brother…”
Him: “No…those are exceptions. That doesn’t happen very often. I mean, really, if you were 26 it would be a different story. Actually…I think 26 is the perfect age for a woman to have children. To be honest, you’re on the upper range of women I’ve gone out with.” (He is 34.)

I departed, dignity and ovaries intact, and never spoke to him again. Yes, I will acknowledge that there is a nugget of truth to what he says. But as my mother often reminded me as a child, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all.” And as three of my very good guy friends reminded me at dinner that very same night…”There are very few occasions where ovaries are acceptable fodder for conversation.”

The Verdict: The quesadilla was great. The gringo was a jackass.