With the first bite, pure elation flows into your taste buds. The chicken jumps around on top of your molars, the cheese runs its course between your two front teeth, the rice weaves its way around the bicuspids, gently grazing them as they run by, and the salsa does the salsa in circles around your uvula.
This is the glory that only an Anna's Taqueria quesadilla can offer.
The restaurant's exterior is welcoming to all who have heard of the magical sensations that accompany the sweet styling of Anna's Mexican Kitchen. As patrons step in the door, they are greeted to a smell of sizzling flour, melting cheese and simmering meats. The line snakes its way against the back wall, with eager heads peering up at the giant-sized overhead menu. First-timers look to friends for assistance on what is tasty - as if there are any dull points to the menu.
The moment of decision has arrived. The man behind the counter is waiting for your choice of burrito or quesadilla. "Quesadilla," you say without hesitation. The man's hand darts into the plastic bag that holds the folded tortillas waiting to be grilled to perfection. The cheese inside the folded flour casing waits in anticipation to spread its milky goodness all over the tortilla.
The man slams your future meal down onto the grill. He swiftly picks up the spatula in one fell swoop, and slams it down onto the black slate, gently pressing your food onto the scorching surface below.
You eye your prized possession with lust. Finally, the grill has had its way with your meal and relinquishes its fiery grasp. The crispy shell is transported to the counter aboard a magic carpet of tinfoil. The foil slides across the tabletop and is stopped by another man's hands. You wrestle your gaze free of the food and into the man's eyes.
You recite your choices of meat, salsa, rice, and other additions to the exquisitely empty shell of a quesadilla that lies in front of you. The man takes the serving utensils and with ease slams the perfect amount of substance into the cheesy casing. He asks if you'd like hot sauce, even though you didn't mention it in your ingredient requests, simply because he likes it himself. He folds the quesadilla with vigor, losing track of how many times he's done the same task in his career at the Taqueria. The foil tightly enwraps the ends of the quesadilla as your salivary glands begin their natural process.
You pay the paltry sum of three dollars and ten cents. Sometimes they charge you a dollar more for no reason, but you accept those occurrences as being your chance to give back to Anna, and you do not make a fuss about the elevated price. You pick up your free glass of water and carefully escort your meal to its seat.
The quesadilla continues to lie restless on the table. The spate of saliva is at a constant pace, but you have not touched the shiny exterior of the foil yet. The salsa needs to warm up; otherwise you will be left with a contrasting temperature clash between the warm, gooey cheese and the cold, stinging salsa. Fifteen seconds go by, and your mind gives your arms clearance to approach the party waiting to be unwrapped.
Before you realize it, your fingers are greedily groping to find the thin end of the solid chunk of Mexican food in front of you. You know that the quesadilla is best enjoyed when the thick end is left for last.
The foil slowly peels back, as the Mexican butterfly emerges from its reflective cocoon. You open the bottom of the foil to let the erroneous juices drain onto the wax paper waiting below. The quesadilla slowly moves towards your mouth, as your mind is at complete ease with the world that surrounds it.
Then your lips part, making room for the quesadilla to walk on moist land. Your jaw drops down, bringing the lower part of your dental scheme with it. You bring your head down to meet the meal, and your tongue touches the first taste of a 15 minute-long marathon of
pleasure.
The next time you look down at the soggy wax paper, shreds of foil lie on the plate, reminders of the messy devouring that took place. You lean back in your chair, knowing full well that your stomach cannot fit another quesadilla into it.
But silently, deep inside the crevices of your mind, you wonder, "Should I go for just one more?"
