This man, this Guillermo Fernando Rios, can cook. Since he was a kid getting ten-cent haircuts and playing little league across the border down there in Sonoyta, Mexico. Hey, his Nana taught him. Sonoran style.

So, this Guillermo Fernando Rios, call him Nando, he can cook.

Thus, the question everyone’s been asking for years: “When is Nando going to open his own place?”

Enter Timbo. The man can manage. He can choreograph a kitchen. He’s got smarts. He’s got ideas. Timbo can dance.

And here is where fate steps in. Because we know that fate is that crossroads, is that intersection, is where the rubber meets the highway, is that spot where character and circumstance meet.

Picture, first, the circumstances: Nando and Timbo in Las Vegas. Imagine them cruising The Strip. Bermuda shorts. Sunglasses. Flip-flops. Smiles like crossed swords in the sunshine. Hey, the two of them—Nando and Timbo—they’re doing their own cooking.

Then it’s Fremont Street. They’re at the Shoe.

Everyone knows Nando can cook. Everyone knows Timbo can choreograph. Everyone also knows neither one of the two is going to turn down a bet on a bet. Nando grew up at the dog track. The man’s a gambler. Running through the man’s veins is that blood they call alligator blood. Gambler’s blood.

Nando and Timbo find themselves, so the story goes, in a backroom at The Shoe. It’s No-Limit Texas Hold ‘em, the Cadillac of poker.

The story says it's twelve hours later when Nando peeks at his hole cards. He’s got pocket fours. The flop gives him nothing, but Nando, he’s got a feeling.

It’s about time.

Fate, remember.

We’re talking about character and circumstance.

Only players left in the game are Nando and a dude in blue glasses. The dude raises. Man’s got himself the makings of two pair, aces and eights. The dead man’s hand. Nando doesn’t blink. He’s all in.

The turn gives him nothing. Six of diamonds. The next card, the river, gives him the four of clubs.

Three of a kind beats two pairs. Always. No contest.

It’s about time.

Nando and Timbo, they cash in, and they’re on their way out, and some joker puts a mike in their faces and sez, “Where you going now?”

“Home, man. We’re going to build us a Mexican restaurant. Gilbert, Arizona my friend.”

It’s about time.