It’s all about you.
I’ve been eating your food, and drinking your drinks, for almost six years now. You are the best approximation of what I ate as a child I can find on the west coast, and that’s not for a lack of trying. The leather seats in your cantina are sufficiently overstuffed, your tilework is excellent, and the lighting is just right.
I heart you.
Even when I didn’t have a job, I would save money each week to come and visit you. When I moved away from stumbling distance, I left you alone for a few months, but I came back.
You’re that damn good.
Sometimes, I linger a bit too long, and have to pay for a ride home. Others, I seem to rush out the door too soon, knowing I could have stayed all night.
You bring me a drink as soon as I sit down. You call me amigo. You know my food order so well that even if I want something lighter, I can’t really argue with a plate set down in front of me before I can finish the refill I don’t have to order.
In short, you make it hard to move even farther away, but I know from experience that somehow, someway, we’ll make it work.