Death in Disguise

Chipotle. Death masquerading as burrito.
Chipotle. Death masquerading as burrito.

I generally try to keep things upbeat around here but tonight I’m going to break from tradition and say something ugly.


I hate Chipotle.


I do understand there is a large contingent of human beings who believe Chipotle is one of the reasons they know there is a good and gracious God in this world. I am not one of them.


Back in the days when we traveled with soccer teams Chipotle was a team favorite. We would drive by one and the players would begin to moan in anticipation. I spent several years trying to scout out any restaurant nearby that would allow me to avoid the rice-filled monstrosities of burritos.


It’s been years since I tried Chipotle and today I had a loving rush of feeling toward my husband.


“It’s a good day and I know you love Chipotle,” I told him. “Let’s go give it a try. Maybe I’ll like it now.”


He agreed, we packed the kids up, and headed out.


After a lengthy discussion about whether to eat inside or outside with small children whose voices rise an octave whenever upset, we got through our order and discovered the steak is spicy.


Not a little spicy. The kind of spicy that sits on your vocal chords and punches you in the sinuses every once in awhile to keep you on your toes.


This is not the best food choice for small children. Tres kept saying, “It’s pi-see, mama! Yuck!”


Lizard was able to get them to trade meats but in the time this was happening I discovered a travesty.


The Coca-Cola was out in the fountain machine.


I don’t care if you’re a Coca-Cola or Pepsi restaurant, in fact, you can serve sarsaparilla non-stop and I’ll be ok with it, but if you have a logo of a beverage emblazoned on your cup, you darn well better have that drink available when people order it or you’ll regret it.


It seems to be true I have a Coca Cola addiction. This must be the case because when I saw the little placard over the soda fountain I looked at my husband and said, “I hate this place, really. I hate it and they don’t have Coke and that’s not OK with me. I hate Chipotle.”


This being said, my husband didn’t respond. This is why he’s a wise man. He saw his Chipotle dreams walking out the door but knew he was facing a woman about to get shakes from caffeine withdrawels.


When I got back to the table Tres was spinning in circles singing, “Ring Around the Roses,” and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I ate my vegetarian soft tacos and announced again, “I hate Chipotle. Really I do!”


And that’s where I’ve been emotionally for the rest of the day. My husband, however has been propelling our Suburban via gas expulsions fueled by the beast of a burrito he consumed. As my friend said, “Chipotle is basically death, advertised as burritos. You only eat them if you hate yourself.”


I agree. I still hate Chipotle.



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