Two Americans take their seats at an authentic Mexican restaurant in Los Angles, because where else would you find an authentic Mexican restaurant. The place is small and old and smells a bit like a neglected toilet, but the owners, a married couple legally immigrated from Mexico, make best with what they can. They lease the property from a wealthy businessman who charges far too much and does none of the promised maintence. He also takes a cut of the profit of the restaurant, all in all making far more from the place than the couple. But they don't complain, because the country the emigrated from treated them far worse. In fact, their present situation far exceeds their dream of the new country. They hope to send for their children soon.
The Americans, one man and one woman, glance over their menus. They comment to each other of how similar Mexican food is, that it's all the same ingredients, a choice of meat and beans and rice and peppers and onions, all mixed together with or without a flour tortilla. The waiters seem to dance around the restaurant to mariachi music coming from the radio as they serve the every beck and call of the hungry patrons. They do so gleefully, simply glad to be alive. They can't feel the puppet strings that the music holds.