Maria's Smile

Near Grand Central in Manhattan, there is a Mexican restaurant called "Los Tacos No. 1." It serves street-style Mexican food with a twist of homemade recipes. Everything there is made from scratch: the tortilla comes with the choice of flour and corn; meats are being cooked right in front of your eyes. The place is always packed with customers, from serving breakfast tacos to lightly fried quesadillas in the evening. I still remember the first time I tasted their succulent blacked chicken taco: it was so juicy that I had to suck it to avoid a messy spill.

The cashier is a new girl who greets every customer with a smile. There is something in her smile that moves me.

"Is this your first time here?" She hands me back the credit card, smiling.

"Oh. NO!" I hope she doesn't mistake me for one of the tourists. I smile back at her and stand in another line, waiting for my food. There is something in her smile that makes me feel giddy. New York streets never lack smiles, but the smile of this girl is different and incongruent from the smiles I see every day.

The restaurant is in standing style. In the front of the restaurant, there is a long bench made of white tiles. Right in front of the bench is matched by a long white tiled table which is permanently fixed to each side of the wall. In order to sit, you have to be a little child carried over the table by your parents. For an adult who wants to find a seat, you have to be slim and agile enough to squeeze your body between the bench and the table-not an easy task these days. I sit down and have a full view of the restaurant space.

As usual, I decide to be an observer while enjoying my tacos. More people are coming in and the lines are getting longer. The girl at the cashier counter is still smiling at the customers. A few minutes later, she emerges into the dining room and starts to wipe the tables with a cloth in her hand.

"What is your name?" I ask her.

"Maria." She points to the name tag on her uniform.

"How long have you been working here?"

"Less than two weeks." Her smile is innocent, scintillating like the first sunray on the horizon, as fresh as the morning dews.

"Were you born in the states?" I ask her. I don't mean to intrude. I think of my daughter who works in Corporate America.

"No. I was born in Mexico." Her smile is incandescent.

"You remind me of my daughter."

"Oh. Yeah?!" Her surprise is delightful, and her smile is infectious.

There is something in Maria's smile that I find fascinating. It is pure, fragile, and breathtakingly beautiful. I am afraid if I blink, the smile will disappear and never returns.

We live in a time and a place where smiles are mass manufactured that rarely do I feel touched in my soul. There are fake smiles, forced smiles, TV smiles, plastic smiles, Instagram smiles, sarcastic smiles, Cheshire-cat smiles, hurried smiles, office smiles, zoom smiles, lethargic smiles, angry smiles, depressed smiles, legal smiles, trophy smiles, bullish smiles, bearish smiles, the politician smiles, smiles from the Bronx, from the Hamptons, and smiles from the billionaire's Row. And yet none of them is as nearly as striking and as natural as Maria's smile. It is the oxygen and the water my life depends on.

If I were Michelangelo, I would immortalize Maria's smile on canvas or on a piece of Marble from Tuscany; if I were Scott Fitzgerald, I would hypnotize you with Maria's smile that takes your breath away; If I were Pablo Neruda, I would write the following verse (my paraphrase) that shakes you out of the ordinary day:

I don’t love your smile as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,???

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:???

I love your smile as one loves certain obscure things,???

secretly, between the shadow and the soul:

Permanent, simple, equanimous, and indispensable.