“CHILE RELLENO BURRITO”
I love the heavy, twice-folded cheese quesadillas from La Posta in Hillcrest with a side of sour cream and a can of Coke and I hate myself.
I love a beans, rice, and guacamole burrito and a small paper plate of hot carrots at Saguaro’s and I hate myself.
I love a dish of refried beans with melted cheese on top and a side of corn tortillas at Sombrero in South Park and I hate myself.
I love El Indio’s mordiditas—taquitos cut up in bite-size pieces and covered in nacho cheese and jalapeños, with a side of classic El Indio chips—and goddamnit I hate myself.
What I love most if I’m anywhere near Clairemont is the chile relleno burrito from El Cotixan on Genesee. I go there late at night with Tyler or Joey Carr or Maggie, and sometimes everyone all at once, and like one pulsing, jittering body we order at the counter and sit down and wait for our food while Vicente Fernandez sings sentimental ballads over the speakers.
“Quisiera reventarme
hasta las venas
Por tu maldito amor
Por tu maldito amor”
At these moments, I don’t hate myself, but I’m too caught-up to know—caught-up in talking about someone’s shithead boyfriend who fucked a dancer from Déjà Vu or about so and so’s meth problem and how it’s destroying their face or what the hell was up with that stupid shitty band that opened for Tristeza last week at Scolari’s?
Tyler sips his soda and tells Maggie and me about this jock douche in his class Big Todd Barkley who’s a terrible homophobe. Tyler is the first person I’ve met who seems like both a boy and a girl. He’s a glamrocker. He makes it look good. He says, “I used a Sharpie and made this fake fraternity shirt with Greek letters that spell out F A G just to piss Big Todd off and freak him out.”
Maggie laughs and takes Tyler’s soda and sips it.
“Don’t get murdered, Tyler,” she says, but you can tell she’s unworried. Tyler’s the sassiest, toughest human I know, and I have no doubt he can take care of himself. At El Cotixan he orders a plain bean burrito. Maggie gets a potato burrito with extra sour cream and a side of chips. If Joey Carr comes along he doesn’t eat that often because of all the crystal he smokes, but if he does he gets taquitos that come covered in shredded cheese, sour cream, guacamole, and diced tomatoes. For me it’s the chile relleno burrito or nothing. Once they were out of poblano peppers and it ruined my life—until the next day, when I ordered two and ate both.
There is not much I love more than eating too much. I want to be a pig—a pig with its snout down in the trough, a pig rooting out truffles in some medieval forest, happy, gluttonous, because gluttony is what a pig loves most. Two of everything. Three on a good day. Disregard entirely how you will feel later. Eat joyously because to eat with a joyous heart is one of the greatest pleasures you will know.
When our order is called, Tyler gets up and grabs it for us and serves us like someone’s nice mom.
Once he’s set our plates in front of us, he gets us napkins then limes and hot sauce from the salsa bar. Like Chente, Tyler goes for the classic San Diego red. I like the mild green. Maggie doesn’t take salsa.
“You guys okay?” he asks. “Need refills?”
“Thanks, Tyler. I’m good,” says Maggie, unwrapping her potato burrito. “Don’t you guys think ‘potato burrito’ sounds like ‘Giovanni Ribisi’?”
I agree with Maggie then I tell Tyler I’ve got everything I need and that he’s earning a great tip. He grabs my cup and refills my soda anyway.
Tyler is a pleasure to be around. It’s a joy to be his friend and stand enshrined in his glamorous, elfin benevolence. Maggie is a wild animal, and in another life she would have hung out at Warhol’s Factory and been a tough New York Italian kid writing a tell-all memoir at 18. Both have that brash, energetic carelessness you see only in teenagers, that don’t-give-a-fuck that either turns to bad choices or mellows into a fine, righteous, ethical anger as you age.
We wear ratty black hoodies or we wear tattered housewife dresses or we wear jeans from the Target teen girls’ section that are too tight or we wear a sweater with colorful stripes and a few band buttons pinned to it or a purple scarf wrapped loose around our neck or eyeliner or sparkly gold-fleck black nail polish. We have thick, uncombed hair and we dye it black because that is how it is supposed to be. We know how it’s supposed to be because we have set standards. Drawn up laws. These laws are unspoken, but we are ruthlessly judgmental of those who fall outside of the boundaries unless they do so with style or bravery. If we decide you are a bad-ass you are exempt from all criticism.
The chile relleno burrito at El Cotixan is a roasted then lightly battered poblano pepper stuffed with jack cheese wrapped tight in an oversized flour tortilla with refried beans, cheese, and sour cream.
It’s best to take a decent-sized bite and let the steam pour out, so it cools for a second then squeeze half a lime into it.
That is how you do it, and that is how not to hate yourself, or to forget that you do, or to ignore that voice telling you such awful things. Like die. Like you are ugly and stupid. Like everyone thinks you’re a joke and is tired of you. Like you will never be anything no matter how hard you try.
Excerpt from my book After Tonight, Everything Will Be Different.