As you might know, or might easily have guessed, San Diego is ridiculously rife with Mexican restaurants. If you see a shopping centre, mall, or strip mall, there's maybe a 0.004% chance of there not being at least one Mexican restaurant in it. Odds aren't against there being two, either.
I'd been to the place next to the BevMo several years ago. Considering the proliferation of Mexican cuisine, it's a wonder they all seem to stay open so long. In any case, the burrito I had last night bore little resemblance to the flavourless grease bundle I remembered from years ago. Last night I ordered the vegetarian burrito which, improbably enough, was also a vegan burrito, and it contained by default no cheese or sour cream. The tortilla wasn't even cooked with lard, which suggested to me the place was no longer as authentic as it once had been which, to those of us whose dislike of lard only happens to coincide with our vegetarianism, isn't necessarily a bad thing.
That won some points with me, but I have to deduct points for the inclusion of green peppers, which in both texture and flavour bring discord to the soft, sweet, heavy harmony of the burrito. I shall in the future request that the pepper be held because otherwise it is a fine, large sheath of beans, rice, guacamole and lettuce.
I guess the fact that I wasn't hungover to-day explains why I didn't thoroughly embarrass myself at the chess tournament to-day like I did last week. But lest anyone think my love of the drink has waned, I present here a sonnet I wrote a few days ago which is called
See the stale paste rims rising above air
And the glory of giggles cupped with glass.
Diamond plonking is now parsed by the glare;
Now rivers run through oesophageal pass.
Ignorant animals languish in ponds.
Mud mixes in an unseemly cocktail.
Man makes martinis and man makes James Bonds.
Heaven's hues sparkle in the hops fractal.
But waterfalls of feudal organs grind.
Industrial destruction demands drink.
Ash and fog get fixes harder to find.
Down past Atlantis laps the green gin's brink.
Stuffed olives like slaughtered Greeks drift downstream.
Bourbon sweat spreads into poisonous steam.