Frankie’s

So, where to begin.
I’ll start with my lunchtime perambulation through the twisty side streets of St. Paul’s.
In between the mews, past the hidden courtyards, along the lane and through the crooked alley, sits a place quite unlike you’ve ever seen before. A place beyond your imagination. This place serves food quite unlike you’ve ever tasted before either and indeed, quite beyond your imagination.
This place is called Frankie’s.
Frankie’s Fine Foods, no less.
FINE. FOODS.
To backtrack a little, some time ago I had discussed with my lovely wife about how being English and somewhat unadventurous in the culinary sense, I’d never had a burrito. This curious state of being had persisted until it had become the norm. Having experienced so much of life with its crushing lows and euphoric highs without this burrito knowledge, there seemed no rush or reason to suddenly acquire it. I’m sure you understand.
So yes, perambulating my way through the backstreets and through the magic garden and such and such, I came across Frankie’s Fine Foods.
FINE. FOODS.
‘Ooh’, I thought.
I then had another thought (in a sudden burst of spontaneity).
‘This place serves burritos, and it is just around the corner from my office. I am going to go into the place and eat a burrito. Yay.‘
So, in I go, and find the somewhat Spartan and a bit worse for wear setup completely empty aside from the somewhat bemused looking man behind the counter, completely and utterly not expecting a customer now, before, or ever.
Hearing fondly regaled stories of burritos and suspicious burrito shacks from many of the Unilocal brethren, I was unperturbed by the lackluster presentation. Hidden Gem, is what I was eagerly telling myself. I casually dismissed the display of burrito ingredients that consisted of potentially years old paper plates with disconcerting slops of goo on them with cling film pulled tautly over. The dark green goo spread clumsily was, I naively and cheerfully assumed, guacamole. The stringy and browning things were probably salad, why the hell not? As for the brown slab of goo on a paper plate, well, I just tried not to look at it.
Or think about it ever again.
My first burrito had been ordered, success! I watch the counter dude haphazardly slap together the ingredients as I hopped to and fro in unadulterated joy. As I see him spread the avocado (no, not guacamole, avocado) like butter into the stale looking tortilla, I think to myself ‘Hm, those ingredients only look marginally fresher than the plates of questionable content.’ I then think ‘Oh thank god, the brown stuff is beans. Wait, beans? It doesn’t look very…‘
My train of thought was interrupted by counter dude shoving my bulging but strangely limp burrito into a sandwich toaster and squashing it into some kind of Mexican Panini. It was about now that some reticence was starting to creep into the edges of the frame, but the proof is in the pudding, as they incorrectly say.
Money is paid; I sit with my happy scorched burrito on paper plate, close my eyes, and take my first delicious burrito bite.
…
…
In the Matrix there is a scene when Morpheus is explaining to Neo about his reasons for trying to locate him. He tells him that he knows something. What he knows he can’t explain but he can feel it. He’s felt it his entire life, that there is something wrong with the world.
Similarly, what I knew I couldn’t explain, but I felt it. I had felt it my entire life, that there was something wrong with this burrito. Before even tasting my first burrito, before knowing what a burrito was, before even being born, there was a part of me, floating around within the logos, that knew that this was not what a burrito was meant to taste like.
Christ, there wasn’t anything that was supposed to taste like this. There was something wrong with the world, if this was a goddamn burrito.
My pupils contracted, my face whitened, I slowly and carefully placed my burrito down onto its flimsy plate, less it accidentally leap into my mouth, stood up and slowly, carefully walked out of Frankie’s. I made no eye contact with counter devil, made no visual cue of any kind. I went back to my office and sat and worked, in complete silence, for the rest of the day.
Thankfully, this traumatic experience only made me desire a real burrito even more. I am glad to say that I am now officially a mighty fan of the burrito.
I am sure the fine Mexican nation would be delighted, if they gave the slightest crap about burritos.
Mexico, I salute you.