Joe Hartzler

Tonight we drove five miles west and five miles north to go to the Northridge Chili’s. I had never visited the Chili’s of Northridge before tonight, nor the city of Northridge which lays just north and just west of my home in Van Nuys, Ca, but I have frequented Chili’s on many occasions. And, having visited not one, but many Chili’s’ across the country, I’ve come to rely on a reasonable standard of quality, efficiency, and zest — I received no less from my friends to the North and the West. Pepper-shaped door handles. Tile table tops. Over-sized blue margarita with tiny pink and green umbrellas.

The world in which I reside is largely unfamiliar, but, happily, there are few surprises thanks to the stringent corporate standards that govern most every nook and cranny. Each one of my visits to Chili’s has been conveniently unremarkable; each branch a vague reflection of varying fidelity to the “form” — some certain Chili’s restaurant to which all other Chili’s bear a likeness, but are mere shadows. I’ve come to appreciate the bland familiarity. It’s not unlike the way most of the cows I’ve seen in my life tend to fit the same basic description: Cow. The point is, the food was delicious — almost exactly as I imagined it would be.