Qdoba™ MexiCANT Grill

Few restaurant experiences I’ve had have evoked the reaction to run home and blog about it. In fact, my trip to Qdoba is officially the first. I would consider myself somewhat of a fresh-Mex connoisseur, having sampled most of what the region has to offer, at least by way of chain restaurants, and I am certain that the Qdoba Mexican Grill sits comfortably below all the others for their sub-par ambiance, bizarrely erratic service from a line of terrified minimum-wagers, and food that even my upper-digestive system refused to tolerate.

To begin the recount of my experience, I think it’s pertinent to mention I drove up to this brand new, fresh-Mex-style restaurant at around one-thirty in the afternoon, a prime lunch hour, and I should have been suspicious immediately upon noticing there were no cars in the parking lot (and someone vomiting loudly alongside the building). Visions of tacos and salsa roja were already dancing in my head, so I ignored the blaring red flags and forged ahead.

With its muted colors and lack of flare, the interior of this narrow restaurant mimicked the aesthetics of a dentist’s office, (without the calming paintings of Adirondack chairs set in front of an ocean sunset, or copies of Highlights Magazine). Again, there weren’t many patrons inside this establishment, and had there been, I may have received the warning to cease and desist, turn around and go home and make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But instead, I walked to the “order here” sign and began scanning the giant menu perched above the way-to-many-to-be-necessary employees standing in a row as tight as Riverdance along the à la carte style line, with wide deer-in-the-headlights expressions, grasping their ladles with white knuckles.

Quickly, I gave up on trying to choose from the menu and decided to simply explain to the server what I wanted. When asked, I said “three grilled chicken soft tacos…and is it possible to get a side of black beans?” The request for the beans, (oddly, not an item listed on the menu) seemed to bring the entire restaurant to a grinding halt. The woman taking my order appeared frightened, and I thought I could see tears welling up in her eyes. And after a moment, she began consulting the many other stunned employees for guidance to this unprecedented dilemma. Now, from where I was standing, I could see the bubbling vat of black beans midway between her and I, and I began eyeballing the ladle in her hand, my gaping look jumping back and forth from the ladle to the stack of little soup cups only inches to the right of the black beans. Finally, only minutes later, a store manager approved the request after consulting a phonebook-thick Qdoba policy binder, and my order was officially in motion.

The sneeze-guard-lined serving station had the charm of a middle school cafeteria, and I moved down the line as I watched my tacos being assembled. It was at this point that I knew the experience was going south. After the same woman who had been serving me gave up to have a quiet panic attack in the back break room, a man who appeared to be the manager on duty took over, asking me to repeat my order. Once again, I asked for “three grilled chicken soft tacos,” and he carefully laid out three, overlapping tortillas and began spooning on the shredded chicken in lines so thin, I could have snorted them with a rolled up dollar bill. He then asked what toppings I wanted, to which I replied “pico de gallo” and “hot salsa”, and he added very small amounts to each of the three. When he asked “what else?” I replied, “thanks, that’s good”, and then he led the staff in a few moments of raucous laughter, tickled by the fact that I didn’t want lettuce, sour cream, or cheese on my tacos. Feeling shamed and embarrassed, I moved along to the cashier, (who told me my debit card was declined when I know it had money on it and she probably ran it wrong, thus forcing me to give her another card), paid, took my food, and left.

Finally I was ready to eat. Since the process of obtaining the food took so long, I couldn’t wait to bring the food home and I opened the to-go containers right in my car. The stench that poured out of the taco container bitch-slapped me like an irate pimp, but my hunger was too overwhelming. It just so happens that I’m on a low-carb diet this week, so I opened the tortillas and scooped out the innards with a fork, which took all but three seconds before I was staring at three empty, grease-stained tortillas. My taste buds couldn’t recognize what I had just consumed. I had ordered grilled chicken, which in all other fresh-Mex-style restaurants I’ve frequented is served cubed or in delightful little chunks, while Qdoba shreds their meat. Yet, the “meat in question” tasted suspiciously like pulled pork, which evoked no less than sheer horror when I began considering the fact that I may have just inadvertently ruined phase one of my South Beach diet (I must have; this morning I was 27 pounds heavier). Additionally, the hot “Salsa Roja,” which was only one tier below the hottest salsa Qdoba had to offer, packed the punch of a newborn with scratch-protecting mittens on her tiny fists.

The tacos were a tasteless disappointment, but I still had my beloved black beans left. I opened the container and shoveled a forkful into my gullet quickly, hoping to chase away the lingering bouquet of pork, only to realize Qdoba’s beans were dry, unseasoned, and had the appeal of chewing Styrofoam packing peanuts. Luckily, the serving size was also insulting small, so the horror didn’t last long.

After purging the car of the empty containers into a garbage can outside the Christmas Tree Shoppe like they were a ticking nuclear bomb in a Bruce Willis movie, I decided quickly that I would scratch Qdoba off my list of “Mexican favorites,” surrendering to the fact that should I want Mexican cuisine in the future, I’ll take the longer trip to the Chipotle Grill. Or Mexico.

In short, Qdoba Qsucked. I give it 1 out of 5 sombreros.