If you're looking for a margarita on Cinco de Mayo and happen to find yourself at LAX with a lot of time to kill, the SJG semi-recommends Cantina Laredo, tucked under a giant chuppah at Tom Bradley International. It would be at least an hour before the newlyweds, returning from two weeks in France, got through customs. We figured why not, what else have we got to do. So we indulged, as one does on Cinco de Mayo, in guacamole (too salty), chips (decent), quesadilla (greasy) and margaritas (good enough). For two aging Jews who just spent 20 minutes searching for a parking spot, we felt pretty relaxed, more or less. But then the first of several panicky texts started arriving, courtesy of the married son, along the lines of "something's wrong... everyone else is through... there's a problem." His beautiful wife's legal status was being reviewed in some room and it was taking too long. The nice margarita buzz quickly gave way to the scary cinematic version of whatever might be going on in that room. Yet I sure sounded calm as I texted back, reassuringly, "I'm sure it's okay... it's just a process... don't worry... it'll be fine." The fact that longtime hubby was reading up on "things that go wrong when re-entering the U.S. without a temporary green card" didn't help. I took another sip of tequila and told myself to chill. I started crunching ice cubes. I sucked on a lime. A few minutes later, another text: "I see her." "Thank God."
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