Years back, I'm dining with my wife at El Faro's, in what is now Tribecca, on Washington and Watts Streets, downtown Manhattan. A truly great Spanish restaurant with the best paellas and a dish called Chicken Villeroy, chicken breast cutlets floating in a white sauce then breaded, divine, served with a mushroom sauce, saffron rice and two cheese stuffed fried squash blossoms. The place had the ambience of an old Mexican cantina, with murals on the walls than hadn't been washed since the place opened a hundred years before, and the same with the windows. Rickety tables with vinyl red and white checkered table cloths, and more rickety chairs. No one cared, because the food was the best Spanish food to be found in all of NYC. It was never empty, even after they opened an uptown location. Many came specifically for the house sangria, which meant my wife and I came by public transit and walked, or took a cab back to the subway if one could be found.
During this particular meal, we started a conversation with the couple at the next table, a bald Spanish guy with a beautiful Spanish wife. We spoke about great Spanish foods from all over the world, great Spanish wines from Spain and South and Central America, and drifted to a conversation about then current Neuvo Rock from Puerto Rico, that like Cuban music, fused Jazz with Classical Spanish music, and now rock rhythms and guitar riffs mixed with the influences of drummer Tito Puenti. Then he says to me "Steven, how come I never hear Spanish influences with your guitar playing?" I said my name isn't Steven, and asked who he thinks I am. He says "aren't you Steven Stills?" (this was back in the day when both Steven and I were still slim, and we both had more hair on our heads) My wife pipes up laughing, "He wishes he was as good looking as Steven Stills, but I assure you, he isn't Steven, or as good looking." I hadn't recognized a bald Carlos Santana without a hat on his head. His wife Deborah said "Carlos isn't even stoned, he has no excuse." Which was when I realized we had been enjoying the evening with Carlos Santana. He had drunk about as much Sangria as I had and neither could more than barely stand up for each of us to respectively hit the head. The waitress told us both to sit down and brought us cups of thick Bustello to sober us up a bit. The wives were having their own conversation, and Carlos and I both bemoaned being the butt of their jokes. Never met him again, or Deborah. But I still enjoy listening to his music. I don't look anything like Steven Stills except for the mustache, maybe? No, I have a better mustache. Well, I think so.