Like many San Franciscans, I sacrificed space for a good location when choosing a place to live. My closet-less one bedroom in the Castro is a tight squeeze, with all of its mighty 500 square feet. But the especially “cozy” thing about this place is that it shares a balcony with the unit next door.
Today was one of those days where the slight rise in temperature made adults everywhere grumpy about no longer having a summer vacation. Whether by telepathy or serendipity, my neighbor and I each chose to handle said grumpiness by drinking wine on our shared balcony. We watched the sun go down as the fog rolled in: It was a perfect San Francisco summer night.
[jump] What started as one glass turned into three, so as you can imagine, we got pretty drunk. Though it was late and a school night, the logical next step was burrito acquisition. My neighbor, who requested that I start referring to her by her dog’s name (Clementine) instead of her real name, suggested we go to Taqueria Cancun since it’s within walking distance, never closes before 1 a.m. — and, let’s be honest, has the best selection of Jarritos by far.
So commenced the trek from the Castro to the Mission with my neighbor sporting a boot for her fractured foot. But burritos were worth it. They’re always worth it, and though we were wine drunk, we had sense enough to remember that.
I was hungry before we got there, but the moment we stepped inside, the growls from my stomach started sounding more and more like “burritooo.” Getting in line, I passed discarded, half-eaten burritos, and silently shamed whoever would leave behind a work of tortilla-wrapped art like that.
When it was my turn to order, I slurred out what I wanted in Spanish, proud of myself for being what I assumed was efficient, when in reality I was probably being kind of an asshole. Clearly, I was not the first intoxicated person to ever wander into this Mission Street taqueria seeking a late night burrito, because the man behind the counter seemed unfazed, and took my order with aplomb.
Taqueria Cancun runs a tight ship, so our burritos were ready lightning-fast and came out exactly as we ordered. Clementine alarmed me by cutting her burrito in half, but she assured me it was so she could have that “last bite of a burrito” moment twice, which is genius! That's why she works at Google.
The burritos themselves were amazing, enhanced by our drunkenness but no doubt still phenomenal while sober. The tortillas were soft but crispy, the cheese pre-melted so that it spreads really well, and — as Clementine mentioned through a mouthful of burrito — “their avocado is fresh as fuck.”
My notes include other similarly intellectual quotes, including that the burritos are “seismically sound,” have “minimal spillage,” and, “okay some spillage, but it’s not the burrito’s fault, it’s the wine's fault.” Considering how messy burritos can get, this is a decent compliment.
I went on to note that, “I hope I can read my handwriting tomorrow,” which I undoubtedly can. I also wrote down some of the evenings non-food-related highlights, including but not limited to: “I found a quarter ☺” and “I forgot to get a receipt ☹.” I found it in my pocket the next morning, so we can go ahead and blame the alcohol for this as well. Perhaps most importantly, I scribbled, “When it comes to burritos, we’ve all got a price.” I don’t know what it means, or why I wrote it down, but it sounds profound, so I thought I might share.
Overall, it was a raucously fun night of filling our bellies with top-notch burritos, scooping some of San Francisco's best green salsa, and swigging the best flavor of Jarritos (Mandarin).
Much like the tortilla of a burrito, the night wrapped up perfectly. On our way back to the Castro we happened to pass by Lazy Bear (where I held my first drunken review), and chatted with a group of 60-somethings who had just come from hosting a Bernie Sanders fundraiser. One of them, it turned out, was a sober columnist who runs a cannabis activism site called West Coast Leaf. It really doesn’t get more San Francisco than that.