(Credit: Dan Piepenbring)
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Wary but hungry, I pressed forward and convinced myself that Frisco was going to live up to the hype. The atmosphere, after all, had that certain fiesta vibe to it, and the man who took my order had the finest set of grillz I've seen this side of a BET music video -- both encouraging signs to the discerning critic.
Though I went with the classic chicken burrito -- a mainstay for any Mexican joint worth its weight in guac -- Frisco Burritos also offers quesadillas ($5.25-$6.75) and tacos ($4.95-$5.95). Unfortunately, a lot of the fixings cost extra, thus forcing me to endow my already pricy burrito with a $1.95 add-on called The Trinity: guacamole, cheese and sour cream. "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Seriously, how could any self-respecting burrito connoisseur proceed without those essentials?
The main wall in Frisco's dining area features a gorgeous, hand-painted mural that one can't help but admire. It depicts, in broad brush strokes, three distinct scenes, each separated by dancing warriors. In one, a lustful couple in the throes of passion is serenaded by a man playing guitar in the background. Creepy, really. The other two portray men in sombreros, working the fields of some far-off land. It was touching, albeit completely inaccurate, to think that those men may have contributed in some small way to the massive, tortilla-bound lump in front of me. Regardless, "thank you, anonymous field workers, you are better men than I."
Apart from the mural, Frisco diners find an array of giddy, personified suns neatly adorning most of the walls. Stray bottles of hot sauce are liberally peppered -- pun very much intended -- on the tables, and a pamphlet holder, unfortunately emptied during my visit, advertises "TO-GO MENUS FOR LOCAL RESTAURANTS LIKE THIS ONE!!" In the ever-expanding world of cookie-cutter corporate entities, Frisco Burritos feels refreshingly independent, even if its interior lacks the well-groomed homogeneity of its ubiquitous counterparts.
After a brief wait, my burrito was served to me on a black plastic plate. She was clad in a double-layer of foil and weighed about as much as a well-fed Chihuahua. Frisco differentiates its burritos from those of its competitors by adding its own unique barbecue sauce; I found it a tad too sweet, a poor complement to the usual Mexican mélange. Others, I'm told, swear by this sauce. Me, I'll stick to swearing by The Trinity.
Dish: Frisco has all the usual Mexican goodies, and it's known, too, for its comprehensive vegetarian and vegan selections. Unlike some competing chains, there are quite a few nacho options ($5.75), though you shouldn't expect to get chips with your burrito without shelling out some extra dough. Embracing Metromix's spendthrift ways -- OK, I was cheap to begin with -- I stayed away from them, taking my chicken burrito as a meal unto itself. And it was.
Damage: The burrito alone was $5.65, notably lower than some of the competition. Adding the aforementioned Trinity, however, means another $1.95. Barring some sort of astounding thirst-repelling superpowers, you'll probably need a drink to wash it all down -- so tack on $1.45 for a soda. Don't worry; I'll do the math for you. The total is $9.05.
Decision: For full disclosure, I must out myself as a former (and biased) employee of Chipotle. My Frisco Burrito lacked that certain something. It was served lukewarm; the tortilla was a bit doughy; the sweet barbecue sauce tasted notably anti-burrito; and, perhaps most alarming, there were a few stray morsels of steak with the chicken. Nonetheless, while the big chains may offer a more consistently delicious product, a visit to Frisco Burritos is worthwhile if at least to enjoy some local flavor.
