Love Trips: Sujeiry’s International House of Hombres

The International House of Pancakes is well known for their creativity with pancakes, boasting a menu of pancakes smothered with oats and corn meal, filled with bananas or chocolate chip cookies and covered in powdered sugar. They all sound scrumptious, and the chefs are definitely inventive, but none of these meals are really international. There’s no mangu con sebollas y queso frito on the menu to satisfy a Dominican man’s hunger; no paninis for Italians to saver with a “Mangia!”; no miso to satiate the Japanese’s need for soup. All they serve is breakfast inspired from the different regions of the good US of A.

This lack of internationalism is similar to the selections listed on my menu at Sujeiry’s International House of Hombres. All the men I date are all Latino, but are diverse nonetheless. I've dated Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, Puerto Rican/Italians, Puerto Rican/Cubans, Puerto Rican/Colombians, one Jewish man pretending to be half-Puerto Rican, and I even dated a Puerto Rican that was one-quarter Japanese. The Puerto Rican/Japanese was tall, slim, and sensual. He was almost perfect except for one small problem. He had the spirit of a South Bronx, NY Puerto Rock, but the package of a riverboat rowing, Japanese fisherman. Regardless, I stuck with my Puerto Rico/Japan boy because I love me some Puerto Ricans. I didn't fuck him, but he was sure nice to look at.

As you can see, Puerto Rican men are my dish of choice, which is why at Sujeiry’s International House of Hombres, I have a special meal called Hot and Steamy Puerto Rican, with some sofrito on the side. But one day I decided to switch up the menu and spice things up a bit with some pico de gallo. I hopped in la yola, traveled southwest on the Caribbean Sea, crossed the border, and began dating Alex. I was weary at first. He was my first Mexican and I had heard many stories of Mexican men. What if Alex upheld the legend of the shortest Mexican who out drank fulanitos Dominican alcoholic tio? Or really could impregnate me just by the thought of fucking me? Or transformed into an angry Chihuahua ready to attack anyone who accidentally stepped on its tiny tail? I was definitely treading carefully, and with a bunch of condoms and a burrito in my pocket.

After dating a little over a month, I didn’t have to use the condoms. I hadn’t had sex in over a year, and I wanted the next man who saw me naked to work for my naked splendor. I hadn’t used the burrito either. Alex had controlled his Mexican, short-fused temper, and I was pleased with his resistance to pummel a man on the head with an empty bottle of Patron, until one night at the movies.

We arrived at Loews Theater on 65^th Street on a Saturday evening. Alex purchased two tickets for us to see the Bourne Ultimatum and two buckets of popcorn for us to munch on. We walked into the dark theater, minutes before the movie was about to begin. The theater was packed, so we were forced to sit in the second to last row on the left side of the theater. The previews immediately began, but Alex and I continued speaking in low voices and cozying up to one another. Then all of a sudden, a White Egg in his mid-to-late 40’s turned around. White Egg glared at Alex and Alex glared back. They were having a staring match right in front me. A competition any man from any race can commence and win. All of a sudden, White Egg uttered, “I want to be able to watch this movie without hearing you’re yapping”. I didn’t think what he said was so bad. He said the word “yapping” for God sakes. But that was enough to push Alex into Mexican fighting mode.

“What did you say?” he asked, his chest protruding like a gallo and brows furrowed.

“I want to watch this movie and not hear your yapping,” he repeated. White Egg had cojones. Maybe he was born in Mexico.

“Why don’t you turn around and mind your fucking business,” Alex spat. His tone was menacing. His neck was tense. His knuckles whitened as his fist tightened.

“Hey, don’t speak to my father that way!” White Egg’s young yolk turned to Alex and whined.

“Shut the fuck up. No ones talking to you,” Alex retaliated. I was mortified, ready to take my yolla and cruise through the shark-infested waters to go back to my adopted motherland – Puerto Rico. I looked at Alex, placed my right hand on his left wrist and whispered:

“Please, just let it go.” Alex looked at my disapproving eyes and unclenched his fists. He leaned into his chair and stared at the giant movie screen. White Egg and Young Yolk had also turned around. It seemed the battle was over. Seemed. Once the movie was over and the theater was once again lit, Alex glowered at White Egg. I looked at him, slowly and menacingly eyeing the old man and his youngins, and said:

“Are you serious? You’re going to try to fight an old man and his teenage kids?"

“I don’t give a shit how old he is. He disrespected me, and I don’t let anyone to disrespect me,” Alex contended.

“So what? You’re going to fight everyone who looks at you bad, says something nasty to you, or bumps into you? You have to choose your battles, Alex,” I reprimanded as we walked up the aisle, behind his challenger.

“I’m not going to do anything because I’m with you. But there’s no guarantee that I wouldn’t have if I were with my boys. I don’t like being disrespected.”

And that was that. It didn’t matter what I said, how I felt, or how logical my argument: Alex would continue following his Mexican roots and fighting every battle. And as we walked out of the movie theater and into BBQ’s for a meal, I wondered if Sujeiry’s International House of Hombres should substitute the spicily dangerous chile relleno with a safe, traditional plate of empanadas.