Um – yes, please. Whiskie bits bakeshop, I officially beg you to relocate.
Stefan and I walk to Gorditos tonight, which if you haven't been there, goes something like this: after placing an order, you're assigned one of many paper mache donkeys, all identical save for their name tags. We're handed Sylvestre, who is missing one of his legs but still appears to be in good humor. The place is full of mismatched tables and chairs, a repetitive trombone-heavy tune playing overhead, bouncing off walls that don't absorb the noise. There's the bad art: one piece (available for $35!) is simply a spray-painted biohazard symbol, black on red. There's the delicious, tremendous portions – a photo of a burrito laying beside a newborn is proudly taped to the cash register. And finally, there's the blonde, peachy-complexioned kid, maybe five years old, sitting with his parents and sister, shooting me a flat look as I wait for my food. He's wearing a yellow tee with a racecar (typical) and chipped, dark purple polish on all ten of his tiny fingernails (not so typical). He stabs his burrito with a fork, frowns at it, then opts to fish a piece of ice out of his glass with the same fork, chewing it fiercely, unfazed.