Plon and I had just left the movies. I think we had been to a Mexican western, a charro film starring the idolized singer and actor, Pedro Infante, whose exploits we cheered, along with about a hundred other people in the large tent some enterprising Mexican had converted into a portable theater. The seating consisted of folding chairs set up in curving rows, an arrangement that made it difficult for youngsters like me to watch the movie while sitting behind the taller and wider bodies of adults. But the action on the screen more than compensated for the paltry inconvenience of a craning neck. After the show, we were hungry and looking for a place to buy a hamburger when we spotted the little joint with a pass-through window facing the sidewalk. Avid lovers of this symbol of American fast food, especially on a heavenly Saturday after a movie, we hurried to put in our order.

A young woman was at the window, but when the manager saw us, or heard Plon’s mexicanized English, he came over and pushed the girl to one side. His angry face, pimple-scarred and reminiscent of rare hamburger, was enough to frighten us. He didn’t have to repeat his command, as even the always-feisty Plon was caught by surprise. We hung our heads and scurried away. But his words had splattered over us like broiling fat—“We don’t serve Mexicans here!”—scorching themselves into our brains forever, like a branding mark of shame.

I knew Plon was angry for a long time. Many years later, he recalled the event: “If I had been a man, as I am now, I would have beat up that gringo’s ass.” For the remainder of our lives, our attitude toward male gringo strangers would be colored by that brief but tense encounter on a sábado de gloria in a dusty West-Texas town: a hulking white merchant’s angry face, and two Mexican youngsters retreating meekly from his blistering command.