There is a place located just on the outskirts of heaven. The foothills, if you will.
In the words of Liz Lemon, “I want to go to there!”
The menu, being nothing short of divine, causes me to have adulterous thoughts. Positively sinful, I tell you. The Grilled Gourmet Taco with chicken owns my soul. It wants me to marry it and have little taco babies. Swaddled in corn tortillas. I’m not really a taco person. I’m a fajita fan. And when it comes to tortillas, I choose flour. Almost every time. Because few can make a delicious corn tortilla to my liking.
Rubio’s takes the cake. Rules the roost. Is the cat’s pajamas. The bee’s knees. The bomb-digity-boomspice. The shiz.
I feel like I’m leaning my shoulder on a roadside Mexico taco cart.
The blending of flavors is something to be yearned for. To be sought after. To long. To leave ones spouse for and have an illicit affair with. Ok, maybe I’m just hungry at this point, but I swear to you that every single time I order this delectable morsel, it’s better than the last time. No lie.
The problem with an order of corn tortillas overflowing with marinated chicken, toasted cheese, lettuce, avocado, bacon, cilantro, onion, lime, and some magic sauce that is probably induplicable by civilians, is that once it’s over, all you can do is wait for the next mealtime. And I say civilians, because the chefs are on a level beyond all of us common citizens.
It’s a good thing Rubio’s has no locations east of Denver. I would be as big as a house and twice as broke.
Jim wants to open a branch. I’m whole-heartedly behind this vision.