Memorial Day Sense Memory

With mom-and-pop establishments sealed up tight on national holidays, we—the non-food-preparers—must rely on the kindness of chain restaurants. And that’s how I ended up at my local Qdoba Mexican Grill for lunch today. (I don’t know where dinner will be, but Blimpie is on the short list.)

For about a month, a sign has been hanging out front, the wording of which has been difficult to parse:

They were the first Qdoba on the east coast? Or they’re just the first to celebrate that eastward expansion? No, it must be the former. Or is it? The Interweb provided no answers.

I think too much.

Anyway, today, a chicken quesadilla was calling my name. (The quesadilla calls me “Joaquín.”) In the proud tradition of Subway, Qdoba is quite skimpy with the meat, but it’s OK. It’s a nice light meal which I partake in a few times a year. Although there was a stretch of years when I dared not step foot inside this Qdoba. And that began right after my first visit, one decade ago. A visit that is forever seared in my memory.

My friend Joe and I had our favorite Hoboken spots, but we also liked to try out the new places. So we entered Qdoba during their grand-opening celebration. It was small, bright, and clean. We got our food at the counter and sat down to eat.

To add to the festive nature of the proceedings, the restaurant had hired a mariachi band, situated near the entrance. I don’t recall how many people were in the band. I don’t recall if they sang. I only remember one thing: They had horns. Now, I don’t claim to study the physics of sound, and architecture isn’t my bag. I don’t know the optimal square or cubic footage required for brass instrumentation.

All I know is, this wasn’t it. It was the loudest anything ever. The Who, Valley Stadium, Charlton, England, May 31, 1976? A mere whisper compared to the Qdoba mariachi crew. Joe and I literally could not hear each other speak. There’d be a brief pause between songs, but that seemed to just add to the cruelty. For then the blaring would begin anew. All we could do was laugh. Laugh to keep from crying.

The mariachis were probably only there for the weekend, maybe even just for the one day. But there was no convincing my brain of that. Each time I’d walk past—for years—I’d shudder a little. “It’s loud in there,” I’d think to myself. “Have you been to Qdoba?” friends would ask. “Any good?”

“It’s good,” I’d say. “It’s… loud. Kind of loud.”

I don’t recall when I finally returned to Qdoba. It’s still bright and clean inside, the staff is friendly, and the food is still good. I’m hoping, for the 10-year celebration, that it’s just an acoustic guitar. Maybe a maraca or two.