by Steven Doyle
The Herrera’s restaurant of my youth seems distant. Long gone is the tiny adobe looking shack on Maple near Oak Lawn across from the Old Parkland Hospital where lines of hungry people sat on their ice chests full of beer waiting for one of the very few tables inside. These folks knew once they made it inside they would be slammed with an aroma of fresh enchiladas. If you were fortunate there would be a woman standing near the doorway stamping out fresh, thick tortillas, and with little coaxing she might hand you one with an adoring grin. Continue reading
