Elegy for Dublin’s Worst Burrito
Written by Feargha De Cléir NíChiannaigh. Photography by Liz Hunt
My first ever job was babysitting a wild and charismatic 6 year old girl who had recently cut her own micro-fringe and who had a penchant for jumping out of the downstairs window. That job paid 7 euros an hour, and I remember that number vividly, because it was also the cost of one vegetarian burrito in Tolteca on Suffolk Street, with a student discount, including the unlimited refills of Pepsi Cola, although if I remember correctly it was an extra 50 cent for guac.
This was as good a way as any to initiate myself into the capitalist system- the rules were clear.
In exchange for one hour of preventing the defenestration and spontaneous hair-cutting of a small child, I would, in return, win several hours of bonding, discussion, liminality, and catharsis (plus the extra 50 cent for guac).
Tolteca, while perhaps on the surface not the cheapest burrito per pound of bean, had somehow become our third-space- a term that describes a place for being that is neither the home nor the school or workplace. For teens, and anyone living with their parents, the third space is also the only space that represents true autonomy- a space where one can breathe, be themselves, freak out, giggle, spiral- speak the truth.
There were a few factors which made it the perfect space for us. It was a long room with no table service, which meant that a group of anxious 14 year olds could sit there for upwards of five hours without having to worry that someone would notice us outstaying our welcome. There was also the food itself, vegetarian friendly, filling, and delicious. But I think the crucial factor was the drinks fountain.
It was one of those wildly unhygienic soda streams, where you can do such fabulous things as mix two flavors together (half-fanta half-pepsi, anyone?) or simply girl-math your way into thinking that you’ve “made money” by drinking so many free refills that it negates the price you paid for lunch in the first place. I cannot possibly overstate how much of my adolescence was spent nursing a combination caffeine-sugar high as I walked back and forth across the hallowed floorboards of 21 Suffolk Street, pouring juice into a paper cup in an early bid for a home away from home.
To be clear, Tolteca was not the best burrito, it wasn’t the cheapest burrito, it wasn’t even always the most convenient burrito, but it was our burrito. It was a sitcom meeting space of my friend group, it was the confessional, it was the therapist's couch.
I once spent 9 hours in Tolteca, arriving after orchestra practice on a Saturday at roughly eleven and not leaving until 8pm, a period during which my friend C and I bought one burrito for lunch and, I believe, shared a 2.50 bag of tortilla chips for dinner.
I once skipped school and went to Tolteca, where I found not only a fellow student there, but also a teacher, and the three of us studiously ignored each other, respectfully leaving each to their own presumed existential spiral.
Neither I nor anyone I know, between the years 2014 and 2017, had a breakup, breakthrough, diagnosis, or breakdown that was not announced amidst the dulcet tones of corn-chip crunching and the regular restaurant playlist of Bruno Mars and the Black Eyed Peas.
For Tolteca was nothing if not a liminal space. My memories of Tolteca are not unlike that delirium one experiences at 5am on a teenage sleepover, when the conversation becomes an unintelligible stream of giggles that, while silly and fun, have a somewhat sinister, sleep deprived edge. Or the kind of conversation, say, that you have four hours into a delayed flight in a foreign airport, when the codes of modern society have broken down, and you find yourself frankly declaring to someone who is, at best, an acquaintance, that you are not entirely sure you are capable of real love.
I had the unique privilege of telling everyone I was gay when I was 14, the first of my peer group, which meant that for the rest of my teens, any time anyone experienced a homosexual awakening, I was generally the first to hear about it. I had that particular conversation so many times in Tolteca alone that I became almost preternaturally good at it, and even now I think I could have that whole conversation in my sleep, armed as I was then with the relevant tumblr posts and 2 liters of “free” sprite, having the same conversation over the same burrito again and again.
Things calmed down in that department for a while after that, but several years later, in my early twenties, a friend called me while I was in Stephen’s Green and asked me to meet her in Tolteca, for she had something she needed to talk about. At this stage in my life, most revelations happened either over a pint or via frantic voice message, and the return to that situation, the bestowing of the “comphet masterdoc”, the 50 cent guac, felt as though I had staved off old age once again- yes, I was still having heart-to-hearts in Tolteca, yes, I was still in my prime.
In fact, that was my very first thought when I heard the news that it was closing down. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been there for years- it still felt like the end of an era, a first nail in the coffin of eternal youth.
Then, when I discovered that it had in fact already closed, and that there had been no warning, no announcement, no last hurrah, I stopped being nostalgic and instead turned indignant.
How could they deprive us of one last burrito?!
Us, their best and most loyal customers!
Us, who, yes, had long stopped going there, and who, yes, had at this point defected to the vegan meat and salty Margheritas of Ppablo Ppicante!!
But still!!
We deserved to say goodbye!!
Much as there are people who argue that the 20th century ended not in 1999, but in 1989, when the Berlin Wall fell; it is my opinion that Tolteca in the truest sense ended sometime around 2018, when they got rid of the Pepsi tap, and it stopped being a place for teens to consume their weight in sugar for hours on end, with no added cost.
Perhaps that first rush of youth ends when that third space, that Central-Perk-like location, which is as much a mental place as a physical place, shuts down, and one realizes that one can’t replicate it. Not because the place itself was irreplaceably good (the burritos there were arguably the worst in Dublin) but because it was the last vessel of an old self, a moment now lost to time. Nothing is more adolescent, more coming-of-age, more liminal and vulnerable and poetic, as the semi-scaldy, poorly lit eatery where a tween first starts to unveil their shadowy, ill-formed self.
But I am not even close to being a teen anymore. And I suppose to love a city, like all things in life, one must become comfortable letting go.
On the upside, there is always the possibility that they’ll turn it into a bar. After all, soon my friends and I will need a place to announce our divorces, and I like the idea that someday I’ll return to 21 Suffolk Street and exchange each hour of my labor for an extortionately priced Aperol Spritz.
