THE COMING PURGE

Sometimes food is NOT the answer to all of life's problems. At least, not Mexican food. I had been feeling a bit unsatisfied -- the blahs, due to a lack of a love life, and the iffyness of the weather -- so I ordered something which consisted of corn tortillas rolled around shredded chicken and deep-fried. With Spanish rice on the side. And crunchy stuff, vegetables I'm fairly sure. And the inevitable shredded lettuce.
Traces of cheese. Plus chilies. And salsa verde.
And a fire-roasted hot chile salsa.
And more crunchy stuff.


Nah, this was not a good substitute for the blandishments of a vivacious young lady with sparkling eyes. Or, even better, a glowering bookish girl-person who wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Faulkner and some cigars.

More like the food equivalent of dating a shallow blonde from small-town California. Somehow I feel that some elements of the meal were too busy texting to pay attention to me.

And, in truth, my attention also wandered.


As food went, the only decent part, really, was the fire-roasted hot chile salsa. Not as piquant as they made it out to be, but possessed of a pleasing earthiness. There was a slight sootiness to the taste.

The horchata was too sweet and cinnamony. And, other than that, mildly displeasing.

The ambiance was not conducive, and far too many healthy types came in to order the veggie burrito or the black bean and salad greens tostada. An adult has no need to see shiny spandex or yoga pants while eating.

I can only imagine what the Saint Patrick's Day special was.

Probably green-dyed tofu.



There are two things that would have decisively improved my dining experience.

One: a nice young lady with a bit of temper to eat with...

Two: if it were somewhere else. Somewhere far better.


Obviously I would prefer the first option, but in all honesty I would take either.


The very best part of the meal -- other than the obvious, which was imagining horrible rest of their lives for the yoga-pantsed personages at other tables -- was leaving, and lighting up a cigar afterwards.


Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes it's better than imaginary sex. It depends on both your mood, and the cigar itself. I'll have to send my very clean compliments to the manufacturers (P. G. C. Hajenius, located on the Rokin at number 1012), who are within easy walking distance of the Centraal Station and several affordable hotels, but nowhere near a Mexican restaurant that seems to cater to spunkless wonders. That Corona with the Sumatra wrapper was exquisite.
Thank you very much, I had a great time.
Let's do it again.


If I stop thinking of romance, I may end up smoking more cigars.




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