bad burritos

Someone asked me yet again last night that all-too-common question, "Why did you move to Chicago?" Because I was in the company of funny people, as I so often find myself, I gave a slightly different answer than usual, "I really wanted to experience 30 below." My boyfriend added, "She really likes earmuffs." (It wouldn't have been funny to say any of that a few weeks ago when there was still a threat that the temperature would fall 40 degrees at any time... but now that March is nearly upon us, I feel confident that the worst is most certainly over. If you don't count the waffling of temperatures that's now upon us or the melting that will soon ensue.)

What I should have said was, "I wanted to eat lots and lots of really bad Mexican food."

Maybe I'm seeing the grass as greener in Southern California, but it seems like any Mexican restaurant I went to in San Diego or Santa Barbara (or LA for that matter... and even one in San Fran), it was reliably good. Or awesome. Or at least edible. Now while there are a fair number of Mexicans in Chicago, I have yet to go to a hands-down really good Mexican restaurant here--take out or sit down. I've been to a couple that pass, but always the rice isn't quite right or the tortilla isn't quite warm enough or there's just something that doesn't click like the amazing and famous Freebirds or Nico's or Rico's or Rose's or Senor Pico's... so last night I went out on a limb, went to one in a new neighborhood I had heard of but never been to, and it was not awesome, not good, and not really even edible. The half of chicken burrito I ate with one piece of bone, a measly, greasy slice of cheese, some brownish avocado, and a not-very-warm tortilla didn't give me food poisoning, but it left me planning a quick escape to the bathroom for the rest of the night and this morning just in case.

The good news is I can do things to slightly quell my addiction to good, SoCal Mexican food. I can eat almost-good-enough burritos. I can try more places that have been rated the best by Chicagoans, though they can't really be trusted. I can go to Chipotle, which doesn't have the right feel, but the food is passable. I can make burritos at home, drowning the not-quite-right beans and tortillas in sour cream, guacamole, and black olives. It's unfortunate, really, because I was just beginning to like it here.