Viva Mexico!

Aaaaaaaahh, I got one. The gold standard in the kitchen.
As I wrote earlier, my Peruvian prince walked out and gave me the finger. So I put out an A.P.B. for a cook. A buddy of mine sent me a guy. A Mexican cook.
How do I put this without sounding politically incorrect? I have been hoping and praying for a Mexican cook. When I first started in the business they were the predominant kitchen help. They were coming to this country in droves and working their south of the border culos off. And they were good.
These days there seem to be other nationalities that are coming to our shores. Some of these people are very good workers. But they are the Hundais to the Volkswagen Passats.
This guy who has a sweetheart of a name came in here and learned the menu in three days. He puts his baseball hat on kind of low over his eyes, once in a while cracks a smile with these beautiful white teeth (how on earth do they grow up in such poverty and get teeth like that? I've had dental care all my life and my teeth are as brown as the pueblo!). He wears his kitchen whites kind of stylin' with the chef coat over the apron. He gets to work immediately. He's professional. He's pleasant. As per my request he's started making some of his native dishes and I'm introducing them on the menu. And his family meal! On his own dime he's been bringing in items from his local Mexican market, queso fresca, corn tortillas and making us chilaquilles, tostadas, pico de gallo. He keeps his cool on the line. He just does the job, cleans like a demon and when we joke with him he flashes that killer smile.
Oh- but woe is me. For I fear my Mexican with the sweetheart of a name will be short-lived in our kitchen.
First of all, he lives in a neighboring town over the state line. He has to take a train and an ineffective bus system to get here. It's not only expensive but he sometimes has to wait on the platform for an hour and a half for a train. He does not drive. Usually someone will give him a ride to the train but it's still a lot of money.
Second, a guy like that- a well-oiled machine needs to work. This was a part time job I needed to fill. This thorough-bred of the kitchen will work 60 hours, easily. That's what he's in this country for. He will stand on his feet and do the marathon- hour after hour, day after day and make some bucks.
How can I keep him? It's like having a race horse in the pony-ride. I rack my brains how I can get more hours for him. How I can make his commute easier. Perhaps my son could share a room with him? I throw him every shift I can, but alas I fear the Mexican, the Volkswagen Passat, the gold standard of line cooks will soon say adios- and ride his train off into the sunset. Never to flash those pearly whites and make burritos for family meal again.