The scene
Six of you at the booth. The server brings the nachos—a massive platter of chips, cheese, beans, jalapeños, and all the fixings. “For the table,” someone said when ordering. Everyone digs in.
Twenty minutes later, you notice the pattern. Two people have been methodically working the edges, scraping up every chip with cheese. One person had maybe four chips total—they’re saving room for their entrée. And there’s you, somewhere in the middle, losing track entirely.
Then the fajitas arrive. Sizzling platters of steak, chicken, peppers, onions. Three of you decided to share the “fajitas for two”—it’s enough food, and it’s fun. But now Jessica has assembled six tacos while David got two, mostly tortilla.
Meanwhile, the margarita pitcher is empty. Again. Who had three glasses? Who had one? Nobody knows. Nobody’s counting.
The bill arrives: $287 before tip.
The Mexican restaurant paradox: The cuisine that’s most fun to share is also the most impossible to split. Communal chips, family-style platters, and shared pitchers create layers of ambiguity that compound on every bill.