I roll the windows down and accelerate, trees blurring overhead. It’s one of those premium October days when the leaves are still green but the air has gone cool, and U.S. 70 feels like the inside of a lush wave, my Camry a weightless dart.
I’m heading to Samantha’s Pupusas, a pupusería in Hillsborough that’s been highly recommended by readers. Eager as I am to visit the restaurant, while hurtling past churches and garden shops, I worry I might not remember how to slow down—perhaps I should call and ask if Samantha’s can toss a pupusa through the window as I pass by. I could compare it to the ones in East Texas, where I’ll be by this time tomorrow if I keep down 70 through the night.
When the restaurant comes into view, though, my foot finds the brake. Even if it weren’t my destination, I think I’d pull over: Samantha’s Pupusas has the air of an idyllic rest stop, with picnic tables and rosebushes dotting a wide, grassy expanse out back. A gray fence separates it from an Exxon next door.
I already know what I’m going to order: the long-running $12 three-pupusa special that everyone keeps telling me about. The deal has been around for years, per old Yelp listings and Google Reviews.
I still need to pick which fillings I want, though, so when I get inside, I grab a menu off the counter and slide into a booth under a big Zap N Trap.
The options range from chicharrón to zucchini to shrimp. I decide on revuelta, a mix of pork, beans, and cheese; loroco, a broccoli-esque flower bud; and ajo fresco, fresh garlic.
As I step up to the counter, I realize there are neon stickers covering every price on the menu, each with a new number Sharpied on top. The one above the list of pupusas reads $5.
I inquire about the three-pupusa special.
“We don’t have that anymore,” the man working the register says.
“That’s totally fine,” I say, nixing the garlic pupusa from my order.
My total comes to $13.02 with tax and tip. The man hands me a table number, and I take it out back.
Right after I sit down at a picnic table, a ladybug wanders across the tabletop, stopping in front of me to clean its face.
I look away toward the gas station, a little embarrassed. The big Exxon sign is advertising $4.19 a gallon. Beside it, I can see the tops of three gas pumps, each labeled “Synergy.”
“Synergy, Synergy, Synergy,” I say to the ladybug, who’s resumed his crawl.
A moment later, the man from the register brings out my food. The two pupusas—thick discs of stuffed and griddled cornmeal dough—come with a bowl of Salvadoran sauerkraut called curtido and little cups of red and green salsa. As he sets it all down, I spot the ladybug about to disappear over the edge of the table and quickly pluck a sliver of carrot from the curtido, setting it down in front of him. He climbs aboard.
With that settled, I turn to my meal, starting with the revuelta. The masa tastes faintly nutty; inside, the pork and beans melt into something mellow and round. Each bite gives so easily that I become aware of the sharpness of my teeth.
I move on to the loroco, spreading it with red salsa. Between the salsa and the black spots of char, it resembles my new ladybug friend. The loroco buds are bright and grassy.
I chase each mouthful with forkfuls of curtido, which is so bracingly tart it’s almost like putting my hand against cold metal—
Wait.
I wipe my fingers and grab my phone to Google. Can ladybugs eat curtido?
The answer is definitive: “No, ladybugs do not eat curtido. Vinegar is toxic to them and acts as a deterrent, killing them on contact.”
I slide down the bench to the end of the table. The ladybug isn’t moving.
“Oh my god,” I say, glancing around for witnesses. Are you going to put this in the column, Lena?
Hands trembling, I yank up a blade of grass and give the bug a few gentle pokes. After a long moment, he hoists himself onto the blade and starts cleaning his face again.
I exhale and return to my plate. Two pupusas turn out to be the perfect amount of food. I polish them off and sit back. There’s a cluster of orange leaves fluttering like monarchs on an otherwise green oak.
Beyond the gray fence, the Exxon sign ticks up to $4.29.
“You see that?” I ask, turning to the ladybug, but he’s gone.
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