In the fall of September 2001, my dad and I, along with six of my friends and their dads, traveled south to a little city in South Texas named Cotulla. As an annual tradition, we go to Cotulla, partly to male bond, but mainly to hunt white-winged doves. Cotulla is known to hunters as one of the greatest places to hunt doves. This city is also known for harvesting of the largest watermelons in the state. In this southern town, there is a restaurant that isn't well known to outsiders, but to the locals, Jose's Café is a hidden treasure, and it is one of my new favorite places to eat.
             After a long afternoon of hunting in the cactus and mesquite covered landscape, my stomach begins to growl like a caged tiger. The boiling Texas sun adds to the feeling of hunger and fatigue. I am drained and starving for food. My dad tells us of the great restaurant he knows about, and I soon become as energized as a dog's wagging tail. As we travel down an endless, dust covered road, I notice a sign on the left with bullet holes pierced through it. The sign indicates the restaurant is just a two more miles up the road. We finally arrive at our destination, and the first thing I see is a rusty antique gas pump, which looks liked it has found its final resting place. Just like the gas pump, the roof is being abducted by rust. The roof was made of tin and apparently looked original on the building. My friends and I come to a conclusion that this restaurant used to be an old gas station. As we approach the door we are greeted by a beautiful Hispanic woman who says, "Binenvedios Jose's Café," which translates to, welcome to Jose's Café.
             We walk into the restaurant, and I can feel the icy cool air surround my body. After a day of hunting doves in the hot and steamy outdoors, it is nice to finally rest and enjoy the cold air condition. As we were seated to our
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