It was a year of absent Alamos, buried Barbies, castrated calves, derriere drawings, errant escalators, filching frats, grid-iron graduates, hightailing hoopsters, income-tax immigrants, jailed joggers, Keating kudos, lascivious linksters, mercenary morticians, nonoffensive nachos, overdrawn officials, Perot pumpkins, querulous quackers, relaxed Rangers, safe-sex students, testosterone teeth, undersea upraisings, visionary vacuumers, wounded whinniers, X-iled X-pectorators, yielding York, and zealous zoners.
In 1980, when Armando Miranda took his first job in America as a line cook, he barely knew a muffin from a mousse. That has changed. In his peregrinations through prominent Houston restaurants, including the River Cafe, he taught himself to cook. Even today he’s a free spirit. “I don’t…