felipe's

Today, as I was walking around with my friends in New Orleans, I spotted a burrito restaurant called felipe's in the distance. It took a second for the recognition to register, but then it finally hit me--it was the same felipe's that was located near my law school, where my friends and I used to eat away our hangovers. Now, it is true that I hated many things about Cambridge, namely the weather, but felipe's was one of the things I truly loved about it. The flour tortillas they use must have crack in them because I would find myself fantasizing about those burritos in the middle of class. Having no real reason to ever go back to Cambridge, I somberly assumed that I would never again be able to satisfy the dehydrated craving created after a night of drinking with a delicious felipe's burrito. So you can imagine how I felt when I saw that familiar green and red sign transplanted from Cambridge to New Orleans, miraculously appearing before me after my best friend's wedding, a night after which a hangover was simply pre-destined.

The sheer joy that I felt when I saw the restaurant was ridiculous. No person should feel that much happiness at seeing a restaurant chain, but I felt like I was going to fly off the Riverwalk. I dragged my friends inside, ordered my usual, and dove in. Sure enough, it tasted the same. Ironically, as we were eating, the two friends who had shared my felipe's addiction in law school called me randomly. I think they could sense my hunger for felipe's calling like a bat signal. And the best part was, I was sitting at felipe's in March in seventy degree weather. Unheard of in Cambridge, where you always had to avoid sitting near the door if you wanted to still have feeling in your fingers. Perfection improved--who knew it was possible?