Comaraderie, brothers-in-arms, esprit-de-corps, commitment, dedication…Unless you’ve served your country in the armed forces of the United States, these terms probably don’t mean much. For those of us who did serve–proudly, gallantly, nobly–these terms mean everything. They’re not just a call to arms; they’re our code of conduct. They’re the way we carry ourselves. They denote our commitment to one another, the importance of taking care of our own. The uniforms worn by the select and exceptional men and women signify the call to duty–the ideals, and the shared title of being an American and believing in all that means. More than any other factor, it’s those ideals that truly bind servicemen and women together, across all five branches.
Our brotherhood–that inexorable bond–doesn’t mean we’re not competitive with one another. Fierce rivalries exist among the five branches. We’ve been known to throw down with brothers-in-arms in defense of our particular branch. We rib one another good-naturedly with insults and derrogatory terms. That’s what brothers and sisters do. Our familial skirmishes and disses are ours exclusively. If you didn’t serve, you won’t be invited to participate. Like good families are, we’re mostly respectful and proud of our brothers-in-arms. We thank one another for having served.
I’ll give you an example. During a visit to Chope’s in La Mesa in 2025, we couldn’t help but notice the burly, leather-clad biker gang occupying a corner of the restaurant. While other diners avoided that corner, I recognized the tatoos sported by several of the gang’s members and went over to thank them for their service. Grateful for my sincerity, they asked if I, too, served. My proud admission to being an Air Force retiree met with affable persiflage about the Air Force being a country club, not a military branch. I retaliated with a comment about having been too smart to be recruited by the Marines. Rather than thrashing me mercilessly, they invited me to join in their war stories. Almost invariably that’s what my comrades-in-arms do when meeting someone in our exclusive fraternity.
Upon learning of a new restaurant in Albuquerque’s south valley about 30 miles south of our Rio Rancho home, my initial reaction was a dismissal–it’s too far to go for more tacos. Then I read that the restaurant, Al Trompo Mexican Grill, is owned by a former Marine and his son, also a Marine. To me, that’s like the Armed Forces seal of approval. You can trust former military members to emphasize quality. It’s just the way we’re wired. There’s no doubt we’d not only have a great meal, but we’d be treated with respect and kindness. Sure enough, as we were perusing the menu, Al Trompo’s genial owner came over and we confabbed about our time in the service. His experiences at Marine boot camp were dissimilar to mine–mine like a grade school P.E. class, his like the Bataan Death March without all the death.
We had some concerns about the construction project on Rio Bravo and were grateful that our exit (south on Isleta) didn’t require us to traverse too far west on the four-lane highway strewn with New Mexico’s unoffical state flower, the orange barrel. Al Trompo is within Whopper wafting distance of Burger King. Al Trompo occupies the space which previously housed Perico’s Tacos & Burritos. The space is commodious and comfortable though much of the seating is of the high-top variety. A number of flat-screen televisions are positioned throughout the restaurant for the rare diners who aren’t fixated on their ubiquitous phones…