Guess where I’m eating?

I could tell you that the plate of enchiladas in today’s “Guess where I’m eating?” snap were wolfed down by someone — anyone — other than me. I could tell you that Sheehan threatened to make me lick the title page of his book, Cooking Dirty, if I refused to lick my plate clean.

But those would be big, fat lies, and since I’ve only got nine lies (and I’m down to just one left), I’ll cop to a confession, right here and now, in front of all you persnickety foodies: I love low-class, white-trash enchiladas, the kind that drip with grease and spurt Velveeta in between the gap in your teeth. I especially love these enchiladas — a love I’m not remotely proud of, but since it’s Friday and all and I’m in a good mood, I don’t really care if you think I’ve lost my mind.

But I do care if you can pinpoint the exact location of where I’m eating.