Coming Home to Beach Burritos

When you’ve spent half a day on a plane, snacking on wasabi peas and briefly considering eating an airline’s poor excuse for food (before deciding you’d rather starve), you make promises to yourself.  At least, I do.  Every time I fly long haul, cramped up in a tiny seat for so long I become convinced I’m going to die there, I promise myself that if I survive to see my destination,  I’m going to eat nothing but fruit and vegetables for weeks.  Fruit and vegetables until I start to turn green. 

But then I find myself lying like a starfish on Bondi Beach, soaking up the first sun I’ve seen in months, and all I want is a beer and a giant fish burrito.  Because that’s what you do; you wander into Beach Burrito Co, discuss the merits of Mexican beer with the Chris-Hemsworth-look-alike server, and eat your fish burrito with far too much hot sauce whilst watching the buff Bondi boys watch other buff Bondi boys as they work out at Sydney’s equivalent of Muscle Beach.   Delicious all 'round.