I went back to my old restaurant today. I could see the weariness in the manager's eyes, the 'fuck it all' in his voice as he told me he'd been working every single day since Easter.
The back smelled funny. The dishes were piled high in all kinds of places, the walk-in was nothing short of a wreck. Out front was a shadow of what the shop once was, the shiny new paint and wood paneling smudged and smeared with neglect. Understaffed, underpaid. No surprises there.
But what hurt most was the food. I remember when I first tasted the chicken recipe I, the owner, and another cook worked on. The chopped chicken was moist, rich in achiote flavor, with a hint of bite from the vinegar. It was a deep red, the sauce coating it thick enough to cling to the meat when lifted from the hot table. Our guac was made fresh every day, our salsa bright and tangy.
I tasted none of that in the tacos I had today. Sometime after I left the cooking and processes to the minions, we lost what made our food special. The chicken is dry and forgettable, the beans little more than an afterthought. The beef was chunky and bland, the sauces may as well have been storebought.
My company might be coming to an end soon, likely this year. But it died a long time ago.
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