Town Without Pita

Yeah, I know, supposed to be the big town secret; of course no one can shut up about it. How Osama bin Laden spent two months here in Todos Santos last summer. Would have stayed, except someone (you'll never guess) alerted immigration.

He bought a big spread in Las Tunas, kept to himself mostly; but you had to notice his henchmen in town, searching in vain for a decent falafel stand and clearing Juanita out of canned garbanzos. Of course the other gringos all clucked their tongues, shook their moral little heads. "It's the Shah in Cuernavaca all over again," someone said. Me, I thought it was fabulous. Finally, someone with class had come to Todos Santos. You know. High end.

I'll never forget that first dinner party I threw for him. I made a lamb tagine to die for, tabbouleh salad, baba ghanouj, hummus appetizer. Osama arrived late, bodyguards and dialysis machine in tow. Tall man, strikingly handsome, yet sensitive, soft-spoken. I sensed at once he was misunderstood. We talked about cooking, mostly. I was thinking of opening a Middle Eastern restaurant in town (the Thai thing, so last year); Osama seemed interested. He had that European sensibility, spoke French as well as English, appreciated haute cuisine and fine wines even if he couldn't drink them.

Some of my A-list guests insisted on talking politics with him--you can bet they weren't invited back. Politics? Who cares? Mistakes in our past? Who hasn't? Osama got testy, started running down Christians. "Clever with money, but kind of pushy, don't you think?" The PC types got all steamed, along with Mrs. Pinch, who had a brother in the World Trade Center (you know, that thing). Of course no one said anything, for fear he wouldn't spend at their shops, or else blow them up.

My dinners with Osama continued all through the summer, evening prayers followed by cocktails. I made some gorgeous dishes. Pigeon with quinces and cous cous, lemon sesame grape leaves, quail ravioli in a creamed fig sauce . . . The A-list winnowed; pretty soon it was just me and him. Kind of romantic, really. Osama rambling on quietly in Arabic, me understanding not a word and not caring, staring into those warm, infinitely sad brown eyes of his, wondering if his culture and religious beliefs would comfortably accommodate my sucking his cock, and of course not daring to ask. Anyway, it was enough just to be in the private company of such a great man. Just me and Osama, imagine! Oh, and all his bodyguards.

And then, oddly enough, the town started to come around. People I'd dropped from the A-list inquired politely after Osama's health, floated unsubtle hints that they were free for dinner. It was a gradual sort of thing. He was only begrudgingly accepted, at first--"live and let live," as Mrs. Pinch put it--and then he was appreciated for his better points (good table manners, great conversationalist), and soon enough he was admired, as he should be, a man of education and breeding and money. Soon enough the other gringos were competing for his company, throwing dinners of their own. The same people who had grumbled about "that evil man" were inviting him into their homes and breaking their inferior flatbread with him. Osama grew comfortable, talked about opening a B&B in Las Tunas.

Which was about the time I reported Osama to immigration. They put him on a plane the next day—to Panama, I think it was. Why did I do it? No reason. I was bored, I guess. So delicious when everyone hated him and I was his only friend. Now everyone was his friend, or claimed to be. And the Middle Eastern thing, so last month.

Anyway, I'd found a new best friend. Someone said Klaus Barbie was coming to Todos Santos. "The Butcher of Lyon," they called him. French charcuterie! Just what this town needs.