Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Smoke Rings & Cherry Popped Things

Collin

The steakhouse looked like it hadn't changed since 1972. Wood paneling, fake cowhide booths, and a massive longhorn skull hanging over the bar. The air smelled like charred ribeye and something vaguely smoky, like they'd bottled "Texas" and decided to use it as cologne.

"This place is a Texas classic," Erin said proudly as we stepped through the double doors. "My parents drag us here every time we're in San Antonio. It's like a religion."

Tre dramatically sniffed the air. "I smell... testosterone. And cow."

"I smell someone trying too hard to be rustic," Billie muttered, squinting at the neon beer signs shaped like cowboy boots. "If there's a mechanical bull, I'm leaving."

I nudged him with my elbow. "You're just scared you'll fall off in front of everyone."

"I'd fall with style," he said, faux offended. "It'd be punk."

We were led to a booth big enough for six. Erin and Mike slid in first, pressed close in that way couples do when they're trying to act casual about how inseparable they've become. Tre plopped in next to Mike with a theatrical groan.

"I claim the beefiest seat," he declared, spreading out like he owned the place.

That left Billie and me across from them. He grinned as he dropped beside me. "Better be good," he said, cracking open the menu. "If I have to smell cow grease and cigarette ash at the same time, I at least want a decent steak."

"You have no right to complain about smells," Erin quipped, peeking over her menu. "You spilled chili in your sock drawer."

"False. It was Tre's chili. I was the victim."

"I stand by my chili," Tre said, not looking up. "That recipe was passed down through generations of hungover uncles."

"You mean you found it on the back of a Hormel can?" Mike asked.

"You wound me."

I shook my head, smiling into my water glass. It was loud, stupid, warm - exactly what the inside of a tour should feel like.

Then Billie glanced at the menu and made a face. "God, please tell me we're not ordering Tex Mex. That stuff is a crime."

Erin's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

Tre and Mike immediately perked up. "No, no. He's right," Tre said, pointing a fork at her like it was a mic. "Tex Mex is like if Taco Bell got a tan and started calling itself authentic. Just offensive to Mexicans everywhere."

"Thank you," Billie said, triumphant.

"You Californians are such snobs," I said, reaching for a roll from the basket the waiter had just brought. "Not everything is about avocados and street tacos."

Billie grinned. "California has the best Mexican food in the country. You know it."

Mike chimed in, laid back but smug: "Seriously. Go to a taco truck in East L.A. and then come back and tell me a queso drenched fake enchilada isn't an insult to humanity."

"Queso drenched fake enchilada?" Erin's jaw dropped. "You're all banned from my house."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Billie said, popping a tortilla chip into his mouth. "You don't even season your rice properly here."

Tre leaned forward conspiratorially. "One time I asked for mole in a Texas ' Mexican' joint and they brought me a bowl of chocolate syrup." Putting air quotes around Mexican.

Erin gasped. "No."

"Yes."

"I'm going to fight someone," she muttered, reaching for the bread like it owed her money.