She who eats alone, chokes alone

I like quaint, tiny restaurants and cafes that offer comfort and personal space to the solo diner. No rude waiters who give weird stares and chilly reception. No nosy diners who think you have a psychological problem. Just a cozy place to be blissfully alone with your food. Food trippers haven.

During one of my island sojourns, I chanced upon a roadside Mexican cafe so tiny it could only accomodate 4-6 diners at a given time. It's loud fiesta inspired interiors and lively Mariachi music enticed me to stop and look at the chalkboard menu. Burritos. Tacos. Enchiladas. Margaritas.

I decided to stop by. Pretend I'm in Puerto Escondido or something.

After a few minutes, the waiter served the margarita and the hefty tacos with four accompanying chili sauces. I blissfully crunched through the tacos until I felt smoke columns rise up the roof. Holy guacamole, my tongue, no my skull was on fire!

Arms flailing and hot chili tears running down my cheeks, I wildly gestured at the waiter at the counter.

"Water, aqua, anything! Fire extinguisher?"

She who eats alone, burns her tongue alone.