It's Monday, January 2nd. Normally this would be a day when dudes who have jobs like I do (the kind where you wear dress pants and leather shoes) would celebrate the New Year holiday by not going in to work. But do to a tiny incident last year, there was a bit of a shut down, some holidays got cancelled at the company I work for, and so I went in to work today. This meant that instead of watching football all day long, I was at work and had to wait until this evening when I got home to watch games.
I was preparing to watch the Tostito's Fiesta Bowl, which I have no real rooting interest in, but was merely excited at the prospect of a quality game. As I got to thinking what I should eat for dinner, the words "tostito's" and "fiesta" kept popping into my head. I like Mexican food just like anyone else. Anyone who says that they don't like Mexican (or TexMex or Texican or Salvadoran or whatever) food is a liar. I got in my car and headed some place new. I told my friend Andy that this year is the year that I take more risks. Seemed like a
As I headed near midtown, I could see the glow of the neon outside the new TexMexiSalvadoran restaurant in Nashville. It's a little place called Chuy's that people have been losing their shit over for the past few months. I can't figure out why. I have eaten Chuy'sonce before in my life. They catered a meal when I contracted at Asurion -- a place where I subsequently got in trouble for blogging about when I worked there. It was pretty good, as I recall, and the queso cheese cow juice dip was really damn good. Seemed like a good idea at the time, right?
I thought it was. Like the time I asked out that 22 year old. Or that 19 year old. Or that married woman. I didn't know she was married. Not my fault.
I walked into Chuy's here in Nashville and the dude at the host station, who I'm going to go ahead and assume was the manager, and the chick at the same host station, who I'm going to assume was the co-manager, asked me if I would like a table. I didn't. I just wanted to place a to-go order. Tostito's. Fiesta. Football. Remember?
I told them about my desires. Not the desire to ask out a 22 year old. Or that 19 year old. Orthat married woman. But the desire to order food to go. The very nature of to go implies speed, quickness, rapidity -- all things related to the length of my relationships and/or infatuations with some woman who may be 22, 19, or married. They told me that "we'll get someone to take your to go order in just a second."
So there I stood. Waiting. And greeted by a few other people who work there telling me that they would get someone to take my order. I know that working in a restaurant can be hectic. I've done it. I rememememememember that no matter how busy you are in a restaurant, you're never to busy to take care of a customer who wants to give you money. I learned that from Reservoir Dogs.
I waited, becoming more and more annoyed that no one would take my
money order. 17 minutes I waited.
So I finally said, "Screw it" and went to Qdoba. I don't know what I go anywhere else. Ever.
The lesson here, friends, ladies who happen to be reading this and want to ask me out on a date (and AREN'T 22, 19, or married), is to not go to Chuy's restaurant and to go Qdoba instead.
And also to drink beer. It makes you attractive to the opposite sex. And also to listen to Slayer. They are better than Winger.