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So, Chi-Chi’s is back.Let that sentence sink in for a second. Chi-Chi’s, the Mexican-food... So, Chi-Chi’s is back.
Let that sentence sink in for a second. Chi-Chi’s, the Mexican-food chain that didn’t just go bankrupt but went out in a blaze of glory involving a massive Hepatitis A outbreak that sickened over 600 people, is being resurrected. Someone, a person with access to capital, decided that what America needed in 2025 was the return of a brand whose most notable legacy is a public health crisis.
They’re opening a "flagship" location in St. Louis Park, Minnesota, of all places. I can just picture the marketing meeting. A room full of guys in identical navy blazers, smelling faintly of desperation and expensive cologne, nodding as a consultant points to a slide deck. "The key," he says, "is nostalgia." Nostalgia for what, exactly? The mediocre salsa and the vague threat of liver failure?
The company’s founder, Michael McDermott, actually said, as reported in the news that the Once-popular Mexican food chain opens first location in over 20 years, "Chi-Chi’s is back stronger than ever." Stronger than what? The brand that was so toxic Outback Steakhouse bought 76 of its locations just to bulldoze them and build something else? This is a terrible business decision. No, "terrible" is too polite—it's an act of corporate insanity. It’s like rebooting the Hindenburg as a luxury airline. And honestly, they expect us to just forget...
The Slow, Boring Death of the Middle
While one zombie brand claws its way out of the grave, another is being fitted for a coffin. Abuelo’s, a chain that has been slinging fajitas for 36 years, just filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. They’re shuttering nearly two dozen restaurants, shrinking from 40 locations to a paltry 16.
Their statement, as reported in headlines like "Beloved Mexican restaurant declares bankruptcy, closing 24 restaurants," is a masterpiece of corporate non-speak. The move is part of a "strategic reconstructing process to strengthen our long-term financial position." Let me translate that for you: "We are on fire, and to save the house, we're chopping off the burning rooms." They blame the usual suspects: rising costs, staffing issues, "changing consumer preferences." That last one is the real killer, isn't it? It’s a polite way of saying people just don’t want to eat at your restaurant anymore.
And why would they? Abuelo’s occupies that beige purgatory of American dining. It's not cheap and fast like Chipotle, and it’s not special enough for a real night out. It's the place you go with your in-laws when no one can agree on anything else. You sit at a slightly sticky table, listen to a royalty-free mariachi playlist, and eat a "Grande" platter of something brown covered in melted cheese. It's fine. It's edible. But nobody is excited about it. Nobody is taking a picture of their Abuelo's burrito for Instagram.
The problem isn't just Abuelo's. It's the whole model. These sit-down chains are like the dinosaurs of the food world, watching the meteor of modern tastes streak across the sky. They’re too big, too slow, and too damn boring to survive what's coming next.
The Rise of the 'Buzzy'
So what is coming next? Look no further than Mezcalito, a North Carolina chain that is not just surviving, but expanding into a place called—I kid you not—"The Exchange," a "buzzy mixed-use development" in Raleigh.
This is the new playbook. Mezcalito isn’t just a restaurant; it’s a concept. It has a "unique take on Mexican cuisine with a Tex-Mex heart." It partners with James Beard-nominated chefs. Its bar highlights "tequila- and mezcal-based cocktails." It's opening next to a place called Capulet Cocktail Club and a high-end toast cafe named Toastique. This isn't a strip mall; it's a curated lifestyle experience. And offcourse, it's designed to be photographed.
The whole thing is exhausting. The food industry has become a content farm. It’s not about serving a great meal anymore; it’s about creating a backdrop for someone's social media feed. The cocktails have to be photogenic, the lighting has to be perfect, the name has to sound exclusive. Is the food any good? Maybe. But that feels almost secondary to the primary goal: being buzzy.
How long does that buzz last, though? Today's trendy hotspot is tomorrow's empty dining room. Is Mezcalito just a more stylish, more expensive version of Abuelo's, destined for its own "strategic restructuring" in a decade? Or is this just the way things are now—a relentless, exhausting cycle of hype and decay? Then again, what do I know? Maybe I'm just a cynic who misses the days when a restaurant was just… a restaurant.
We're Just Eating Marketing Now
So here we are, at a crossroads of American-Mexican dining. You can choose the zombie brand resurrected by ghouls in finance, banking on a nostalgia that probably never existed. You can choose the slow-dying legacy chain, serving up mediocre comfort food in a sea of beige. Or you can choose the hyper-curated, chef-driven "experience" that feels more like a movie set than a place to eat dinner.
What’s missing from all of this? The food. It feels like an afterthought. A prop. The real product is the narrative—the comeback story, the tale of managed decline, the hype of the new and trendy. We’re not customers anymore; we’re an audience. And I, for one, am getting tired of the show. I think I'll just stay home and make my own damn tacos.