Dear Chipotle and it’s ever-satisfying line-up of meats, cheese, vegetables, and sauces:
I fucking love you.
For 27 years of my life, I’ve gone it alone. Sure, I’ve had flings here and there (even some that turned into actual “boyfriends”), but nothing I’ve ever felt for any of these fellas has even sort of measured up to the degree of dedication and admiration I feel toward you.
Don’t ask me to list one reason, because I think you and I both know that’s damn near impossible. How am I supposed to choose one thing about you and make that the nucleus of my love? I can’t. That’s like asking a dog to choose between the love of its owner, peanut butter, or going outside. It’s just not realistic.
Instead, let’s go down the standard Chipotle line of food, so I can give equal attention to each and every part of you:
The Tortilla/Bowl/Tacos: You would think, after a solid 10+ years of visiting you, I would have my base picked out in advance. But every time I walk up to the glass casing, I briefly hesitate. Your tortillas, the big or the small, melt in the mouth like the finest of whipped butter. Your corn tacos are the perfect mixture of crunch and flavor. The bowl, although not edible, is in a league of its own with surefire sturdiness. You’re all beautiful in your own way, which is why I can’t remain faithful to one of you for too long.
The Rice: It was nice of you to give the general public a “healthier” alternative with the brown rice, but no matter what any pseudo-healthnut says, the white is and will always be where it’s at. I have no doubt I could live off just your rice for years on end. Cilantro, lime, salts, probably some sugar? And just a splash of sex.
The Beans: Personally, I don’t fuck with Pinto, but I’m sure they’d be delicious if I did. In fact, up until you, I didn’t fuck with beans in general. But how could I say “no” to the black bean offerings of my most trusted confidant? And, per usual, you did not fail me. Black beans for life.
The Fajita Veggies: When people are sure to ask for the fajita veggies, I smirk. They’re the only veggies here, dumbass. But that’s besides the point, because they are delicious. Do I always get them? Rarely. But have I before? You betcha. And, as someone who isn’t usually super keen on grilled vegetables, these (like everything else you bring to the table and my upper thighs) have some sort of magical sex powder that makes them completely orgasmic.
The Meats: A carnivore’s playground. But always. Always. ALWAYS. The Steak. And I won’t hear any differently. I don’t give a shit if red meat isn’t awesome for you, because you know what is? THIS STEAK.
The Sauces: Be still, my heart. Some fiery red, a touch of tomatillo green, a splash of corn. And, for my fattest days, SOUR CREAM ALL OVER MY FACE PLZTHX. Show me someone who typically doesn’t like sour cream and watch with amazement as they taste Chipotle’s sour cream and their entire world changes. Sidenote: Pico is for pussies.
The Cheese and The Lettuce: On days that IDGAF? “Yes, cheese.” On days I(Do)GAF? “Just a little cheese. Don’t mind my weepy eyes. Just sad I can’t ask for all the cheese.” I want Chipotle cheese dumped into my grave or into my can of ashes. As for the lettuce, we all know it’s just roughage and pretty unnecessary, but magically delicious in its own special way.
The Guac: In a league entirely of its own. I mean, shirts have been made for it: “I know that guacamole is extra.” People search the Internet for their entire lives, looking for a similar recipe. More often than not, hungry patrons visit Chipotle and order only the Guac and a bag of chips to gorge upon. It’s crack-cocaine in it’s purest, greenest, avocadoiest form and there will never be anything else like it. Game. Set. Match.
I could keep going. I could talk about your impressive margarita game, how your fountain drinks somehow taste better than most, or how just a squeeze of lemon sends me over the edge with every bite.
Chipotle, you are and will always be, the love of my life. I can only hope you feel half as intensely as I do (but I’m guessing you do by the looks of my stomach after we hang out).
I love you. You had me at “Burrito.”