What the hell made me take a 4km round trip to Guzman Y Gomez for a burrito on a day that made me nervously contemplate the boiling point of spinal fluid? In the relative Englishness of last week's weather i didn't even entertain the idea of going that far. But Mexican fare is all about contradiction and counterintuition- "Let's drink tequila and munch on jalepenos in the frickin desert!" they say. In this spirit, the heat gave a context for my expedition and would maybe lend authenticity to burritos that everyone keeps telling me aren't very authentic at all.
Intense heat, like rain, makes you consider your path choices more keenly. Hugging a wall to get half your black t-shirt in the shade, seeking out the rasp of recently watered bushes across your burnt shins, girding yourself for the upcoming expanse of parched, shadeless earth. I paced my journey to perfection and as the town clock struck una y media I strode, almost dryly, across the threshold of Casa de Guzman y Gomez.
This place teeters like a car on a precipice with chain restaurant prosaicness off one side, and inner west/inner city hipster radness off the other. The only thing preventing it from tipping forward into the former is a back seat-full of expertly boisterous, exclusively hispanic waitstaff. "BEGGIE BURRRRITO NO MUSHROOMS!!!" the woman behind the counter echoed my order to the kitchen like a cooee in a canyon. Today my burrito cost 50 cents more than last time ($10.50). Is that cheap? I don't know, i suspect not but i have no frame of reference. I got my number and moved to the side to fill up a little container with Tabasco sauce, and another with chopped corriander. I could also have availed myself of sliced jalapenos, spanish onions and either habanero or chipotle Tabasco brand sauce- as much as I wanted for free.
After a couple of minutes of sighing and muttering crazily to no one about how frickin' hot it was, my order was ready: "NOMBERR EIGHTY-NAINE! BEGGIE NO MUSHROOMS!". I thanked the kindly senorita and started the trip back to the controlled climes of my office space.
I sat devouring my burrito of black beans, guacamole, onions and rice in a sweaty, contented mess- my officeward journey had been more manic than the first leg, urged by my tasty passenger into a pace that was not appropriate for a 40+ degree day. But I tell you what, I enjoyed the s#%t out of that burrito. The people who whinge about GYG's lack of authenticity probably drove air-conditioned to Newtown on an already cool afternoon in August and got their partner to run in and pick up their soft shelled tacos for them. Authenticity is a two-way street. The food is fast and (possibly) cheap, tastes good and seems like it would be better for you than Macca's or a kebab. And GYG's discriminatory hiring practices are to be warmly applauded.
X gives this place an ocho (8).
Aye Carumba!
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