The Mexican restaurant

The nature of covering high school football is such that you'll almost always work on Thanksgiving or the day after. This year, I was lucky enough to spend the holiday with my friends and family in Philadelphia, but Black Friday led me to Montgomery County for a Maryland state semifinal.

As much as I wanted to stay in Philadelphia and spend more time watching MLB Network with my friend Chris, I used the three-hour drive to the DMV suburbs to clear my mind and bask in the glory of endless Christmas music.

Because I anticipated more traffic from the throngs of shoppers I envisioned clogging the highways, I arrived at the high school an hour and a half before game time. And because the only thing I ate all day were four Take 5 bars my aunt gave me, I was hungry.

The high school concession stand would have been an affordable option, but I don't like to patronize the schools I'm covering. There was a Wendy's and a McDonald's across the street, but in my jaded attempt to eat healthier, I passed. I hoped to discover a smallish place with a counter at the front that wasn't necessarily fast food. Basically, a place that didn't have table service, but that wouldn't send me 3,000 calories in the red.

With time to waste, I drove around the shopping plaza three times before parking in between a jewelry store and an Italian joint that, from the curtains alone, was too pricy for me. I walked along the storefronts attempting to peer in at the setup and maybe catch a whiff of the cuisine. I quickly ruled out Papa John's and a sushi place. It was between Afghan or Mexican. While I've been on quite the kabob kick lately, the interior looked more like a store and less like a restaurant. I settled on Mexican.

Truth be told, I forget the name of the place. All I remember is that when I looked in, I saw a decent amount of tables and chairs and, the key to this grand plan, a counter with a cash register up front. Had I looked closer, I would have noticed that there wasn't a menu hanging overhead. It was a sit-down place after all.

"OK," I thought to myself, "I've eaten out by myself a few times before. It's not so bad." I made my way to the counter, but before I reached the host anxiously waiting to greet me, I caught sight of, well, nothing. Nothing and nobody. Not only would I be dining by myself, I'd be dining alone. I was the only non-staff member in the building.

I approached the counter, at this point realizing it was too late to turn back, and sheepishly asked for a table.

"For one?" asked the 20-something Latino host with black gel-spiked hair.

"Yep," I said. "Just one."

"OK. ... Anywhere you like."

No matter how polite a host or hostess is, there's always a certain twinge in the way they respond to a single person's request for a table. Only one? Really? Are you sure there's nobody else who can join you to eat? Just for 30 minutes?

Once I sat down, the reality of the situation struck me. In the near corner, I spotted a busboy sitting sideways in his chair, neck craned skyward, gawking at the chicas on Telemundo's "12 Corazones." It was hard to avoid watching with him. Despite understanding one eighth of the words, it was my only respite. So help me if Manuela made the wrong choice, the evening would take an even harsher turn for the worse.

I wanted to use the bathroom as soon as I sat down, but feared it'd be rude to run off before my waiter had a chance to come over. Turns out, he wasn't that busy. I'd wait.

My waiter, the same guy who seated me and whose name I never found out, sneaked up behind me -- my back was to the counter -- handed me a menu and took my drink order (water). He soon dashed back with my drink, chips and salsa, then vanished to the unknown world behind my head. The world where he and, presumably, his mother the chef watched all of my actions.

I counted the tables in front of me. 10. I counted the chairs. 34. I played Scrabble on my phone and, once my turn was over, came close to counting the leaves on the plants and the chili pepper lights draped across the top of the front window.

The silence, save for the meringue tones humming from the flat screen, built. I questioned every move that otherwise would have gone unnoticed while dining in a crowded restaurant. A restaurant where there were conversations, clinking silverware, laughter. Should I put my elbows on the table? Does it matter whether you do that when there's a table cloth? Is it rude to text someone instead of read the menu? How much time is too much time to decide? Should I bother putting my napkin on my lap? Would putting my feet up on the chair across from me be taboo?

I can only imagine what questions the owners were asking themselves at that same moment.

Before I had a chance to finished reading every entree option, my waiter appeared and starting naming the specials. Even if I didn't like any of these house specials, I knew that's what I'd be getting. I didn't have the guts to turn down one of his offerings and order something else. He put in the time, the effort, to suggest these dishes for me. At least in a crowded restaurant, the adjacent table might overhear him and make a hasty decision because of it. Not here.

And so it was, the chicken enchiladas with no sour cream or guacamole. At least I stood up for my dislike of liquidy condiments.

The food was delivered before I had a chance to play my next Scrabble word. Quick even for an empty restaurant. I cut into the steaming tortilla and pulled it from the plate, long melting strand of cheese failing to cooperate with my plan to remain as unassuming as possible. I was careful to not make too much noise with the silverware and chewed a soft chew. I made a conscious effort to cut the cheese thoroughly so it wouldn't stick to my chin. Fool me once.

The first bite was satisfying more because the Take 5s had long since taken five than because of the taste, but overall, I enjoyed the meal. In a strange way, it felt home cooked. It felt delivered with special care and attention. I heard the pots and pans clanking around making my dish. There was a human element added to the dining process that doesn't come with eating in a crowded restaurant. When you eat in a group, you discuss your food with everyone. Sometimes share. When you eat alone, you're the only critic.

Upon finishing my plate I sat back, sipped on my water and polished off the last few tortilla chips. The busboy watching Telemundo was gone. I somehow missed his departure. I was ready to pay and head to the game. Problem was, I didn't know whether I paid up front or if the check was brought to me. Having no other customers upon which to base my decision, I pushed away from the table and walked toward the counter. Risky, but (turns out) correct. The host showed me the bill and I then faced another interesting decision when considering the tip. The food wasn't anything special -- though I made a point to say I really enjoyed it multiple times when asked because, honestly, what else would I say in that situation? -- but the service was exclusively mine. The proper amount to tip occupied plenty of my thoughts at the table. Twenty-five percent seemed in order. And really, on a nine-dollar bill, what's the difference?

I grabbed my coat off the back of the chair, walked past the counter and asked, "Is this the way to the restroom?" knowing good-and-well it was based on the restaurant's design. My host kindly said yes and I rushed back, excited to finally relieve myself.

I scurried down what seemed like far too long a hallway given the size of the building and spotted the men's room on my right. Sensing the impending end of this unique experience, I pushed the door but was surprised to be met with resistance. It didn't budge. Not an inch.

Wouldn't you know it? Occupied.