Don Hugo's stories: the customers who have come for 28 years

One recent afternoon I asked my dad to tell me the good stories about our carnitas customers. We've been at the shop on Av. Paseo de los Leones for 28 years and we had never written down where the people who keep us going come from.

He pulled the list from memory, effortlessly, the way you remember your own children. Here's part of it.

Don Raimundo, the first customer

In 1998, with the shop just opened, my dad saw a man drive by and walked out into the street with a sample in his hand. "Try it, sir." The man said "shame, I already ate", but he couldn't help himself. He got out of the car, tried it, and ordered a quarter kilo.

From that day on, every Sunday, Don Raimundo came for carnitas for his whole family. He was a neighbor here in Vistahermosa. For decades he was customer number one.

When you start a business you never know who the first one will be. My dad didn't know either. But that sample handed over on the street was the first "yes" of the thousands that came after.

The customer who grew up with the shop

There's a customer, and I won't say his name because he still comes, who started coming with his parents when he was a kid. Later he started coming with his girlfriend. Then they got married and came together. And now, with kids of his own, he still comes.

They came three weeks ago, all four of them.

My dad says it happened with several couples: "there are a few couples who started coming that way". But that sentence is the nicest thing you can say about a family business: that you watched someone grow up, and that they kept coming once they had someone to share the table with.

Mr. Lozano and the mezcal at the counter

The Prado family grandfather had a friend named Lozano. Every week he came to the shop, not just for the carnitas but for the conversation. My grandfather would pour him a small mezcal at the counter and the two of them would talk for a while.

"He was a great guy", my dad says. "If my father were alive he'd be ninety-something. Mr. Lozano is about that age too."

Some customers come for carnitas. Others come out of habit. And others, the rarest and most valuable, come because the shop is part of their week, part of how they relate to the world.

Dr. Caro and the five guacamoles

Dr. Caro is a neurologist. Every two weeks, sometimes once a month, he shows up and orders almost always the same thing: 3 or 4 kilos of carnitas and 5 guacamoles. When someone asks how many people it's for, he always answers the same: "for the grandkids".

We don't know whether the grandkids eat that much. But we know that every Sunday, in some house in Monterrey, Dr. Caro's grandchildren watch the bags with the Los Prado logo arrive. And that, for my dad, is reason enough to keep standing by the cazo.

Mr. Barragán from the Tocumbo ice cream shop

He was from Michoacán, owner of the Tocumbo ice cream shop in Guadalupe. A professional dancer in his youth. He came to the shop every two weeks, calling out with a smile: "qué pasó, paisano!"

He was a bit of a bragger. He'd tell us his popsicles were the best in the world, that his kids had studied at the Tec, that he had put them through school. My dad believed him. So did I. He died two or three years ago. His children still run the shop.

There's an unwritten code among people from Michoacán living in Monterrey: when one recognizes another, they greet each other. The carnitas were the excuse. Being from the same place was the real reason.

Dr. Ábrego, the poet orthopedist

He'd arrive at the shop sounding thoroughly northern. He was an orthopedic surgeon, a teacher, and he recited poetry. Once Don Hugo mentioned his knee hurt and the doctor, without waiting for an answer, pulled out his card and said: "make an appointment, here's my number". He wasn't asking. He was instructing.

He has passed away. He was one of those customers who came and stayed to talk for a while. There are fewer of those every year.

The question with no answer

Throughout the conversation, my dad mentioned several customers who came every week for decades and then suddenly stopped. Whole families. Doctors, dentists, neighbors, people from Michoacán. They're all still alive. But they don't come on Sundays anymore.

I asked him why he thought that happened. He went quiet for a while. Then he said:

"Families don't get together on Sundays like they used to, because the kids are grown now, and if you add to that the fact that the parents have died, well, they don't gather the way the parents used to gather them. Do you follow me? That has a lot to do with it, son. The generations."

That sentence is the answer to everything. It's why we keep doing what we do. It's why Don Hugo still stands by the cazo every Thursday through Sunday, even though he no longer needs to. It's why the shop is still open.

Families don't get together like they used to. But the ones who still do, the ones who still make that effort on Sunday, deserve carnitas worth the trouble. That's the only thing we know how to do.

If it's been a while since you organized a family meal, this is your excuse. We'll be here.