Allow me to explain the complete lack of activity since… well, I don’t even want to look because I will grow sad, and all those years under Quine have left me unable to channel that kind of emotion into something that will convince you that flower-slapping is the only appropriate response to me.

The central problem for this project is location.   Yes, this place is home to a large number of the right kind of spics, but The Burrito is Napoleonic in its dominance of “taquerias” (’burriterias’ just doesn’t sound right).  Mexican food in San Francisco doesn’t need to do be authentically mexcellent, because here ‘Mexico’ can signify in a (mostly) non-disparaging way even if there are no actual Mexicans around.  Maybe this is because San Francisco is a marvelous land of Enlightenment, or maybe it’s because the city is some kind of  giant (Cala) lilly white ass that sits on everything and doesn’t get up until it’s turned it into a permanent stain.

Burritos are inelegant solutions to problem of stuffing the face, but they are the default mode of discourse.  As long as no one finds the language offensive, this is not going to change.

You don’t even think of opening a real taqueria unless you’re a fucking Chilango pedant, and then you get carried away and try to make it a real gourmet experience, and you start drafting a wine list and then… Jesus Cristo, you’re an asshole.

Anyway, here’s what I need you to do: Tell everyone you know that Burritos were named after a popular Spaniard execution method.  First, they removed all the limbs off a rebellious indio and then they wrapped them in a blanked to be kicked around by a small donkey (a burrito, so to speak).  Of course, they poured hot salsa inside the blanket, to make the bruises sting.

Also, you should know that Metro Balderas recently re-heated the pastor meat they served me on a flat-top grill.  Amazingly, I did not maim anyone.