7 hours on your feet can pass by extraordinarily quickly when you are surrounded by happy, busy people. That I have less than forty-five minutes to try and make this day about much more than that feels as though I am facing a wall of eternity with just the tiniest sustenance.
It was fine. Fun. It was good. I felt alright with hair done up and my shopsmall pin on my lapel and women surging through the door like blind little truffle pigs sniffing out sales. Please! Please do come here and rifle through our drawers, perhaps you, you lucky soul will find an item of extraordinary value amongst them. We welcome you and your half-drunk lady friends to cackle and eat cookies. We welcome you to peruse our jewelry and tap on our glass cases. We welcome you.
Nearly all of the staff was there, and only one register, so I stood in the center of the massive place and just guided people to the sales room. Hardly the end of the world. Hardly grueling in the way that it might be. It was a successful day.
Speaking, as were were once, of sustenance: that did come today in the form of tacos.
We have a new Torchy’s Tacos that has arrived in the neighborhood – which I am given to understand is an Austin-based chain restaurant. I can hardly care where they come from beyond the fact that any and all southwestern or Mexican-style food that I have ever had from the Midwest on out to the East coast has been miserable. So afraid of flavor and pepper and spice that it tastes like boiled meat wrapped in a lugubrious layer of sour cream and spackled with tasteless green glop they profane to call guacamole. Recently, another taco shop opened up nearby which hailed from Minnesota of all places. Now, not that I intend to give a full review to all tacos I ever try, I did want to state I gave them a fair shake, but as close as they are, I’ve yet to return. Blah.
Torchy’s is neither blah, nor from a place where they don’t understand the nature of the taco. Torchy’s is a place where I ordered the Democrat and it was, deeply, deeply satisfying. So much so that there are not-at-all secret plans to return tomorrow under the guise of putting tacos before our parents’ faces before we burst under the force of sheer evangelic fervor. It’s rare, for me, to go to a restaurant and eat yourself until you’re dancing around the painful edge of full when you’re so satisfied and done in that you are not entirely sure if you are capable of standing up on two legs and making your way to the car, or if you will, in fact, have to pick up sticks and just live on your restaurant stool from now on. It’s rarer yet to finally exit the restaurant, drive the 3 minutes it takes to return home and think about when is the next time I can get my mouth around one of those tacos? I could go for another one right about now.