It was to peel back more than half a century of adul- terated nuevos nachos that I made my pilgrimage to the Moderno. I glanced nervously at border agents with a large dog checking travelers heading north from Eagle Pass. I did not stop to play the slots at the Kickapoo tribe's casino, nor did I tour historic Fort Duncan, although it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. I also resisted the temptation to shop at the local GAP (Gonzales Auto Parts). I just drove over the international bridge and blundered through the one-way streets of Piedras Negras, a part- ly seedy city showing many signs of Nafta prosperity.

Only a few blocks from Mexican customs I found Restaurante Moderno. No plaque, not even an old photo, commemorated Nacho Anaya. Bilingual wait- ers dressed in a subtropical version of international penguin moved briskly from table to table, with drinks from the long bar. The dining room seemed larger than it was, because two walls were mostly mirrors. There were also square columns with mirror insets. And on the dais at one end of the room, a man in midnight blue played "Amapola" on the piano with a synthesiz- er backup of brass and rhythm.

My nachos were pristine, each chip covered with real melted cheese topped with a round of jalapeño. Hot salsa came on the side with a bowl of...tortilla chips. What had Mamie the officer's wife seen in this simple invention? How had this simple invention swept the great world beyond the state of Coahuila? I tried to think myself back to 1943, to a world without nachos on the brink of catastrophe. I was in Texas myself then, a toddler in El Paso uprooted by war with parents who'd fallen in love with Mexican food in Juarez, across the bor- der from Alphavillian Fort Bliss.

What bliss indeed to be present at the creation of a spicy Mexican bar snack. And how clever of Howard Cosell to see that this mosaic of cheese and chips and stinging pepper was the perfect finger food for the age of the couch potato.