One month ago I walked into Chipotle over lunch and there you were. You were exotic looking, in a Southern Illinois type of way, with your long black hair tied back in a rubber band and a twinkle in a your eye. You said, “Welcome to Chipotle, what can I get you?” And I knew you were special, I just didn’t realize how special yet.
I told you I wanted a salad because I’ve tricked myself into believing I’m eating healthy at Chipotle if that’s what I get, as opposed to a burrito that weighs about the same as a newborn. And because their meat is all like farm grown or whatever I feel like I’m doing good for the earth. I like to think I’m doing Nebraska a favor.
You started filling my white little container with lettuce and then black beans (I always want pinto but I feel like black beans are healthier) and then with your kind eyes you asked “what kind of meat?” And I looked down to the floor because I typically hate this part. It usually just leads to disappointment. “Barbacoa” I mumbled.
And then it happened. As if you were the patron saint of meat at Chipotle you started layering my meager bed of lettuce and beans with more barbacoa than my little heart could desire. I looked up as if to say what is happening right now? But you just continued on like it was nothing. Because that’s the type of guy you are, Chipotle Guy. The type who gives extra meat just because he can. You’re getting harder and harder to come by these days.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I would never see you again after that one magical day.
Now when I go into Chipotle I can barely contain my rage with the lack of meat I am given. Nobody wants to be the bitchy person who whines, “um excuse me, but can I have more meat? You gave the guy in front of me at least half a spoon more.” I know better, I just shouldn’t watch the guy in front of me because it’s pathetic. But is it? IS IT? Are we rationing meat now, Chipotle? I can only assume the amount of barbacoa that is given out per day is taken directly out of your employee’s paychecks because they hoard it. The meat is their power and boy do they hold it over us.
But now I’ve gone and got myself all upset again and that wasn’t my intention. Like Emily Maynard would say in my heart of hearts I really do love Chipotle. I suppose I could just pay the extra $2.00 for additional meat. But that’s my guac money. I know it might seem like it when I come in there buying chips and a drink sometimes, but I’m not a millionaire, Chipotle Guy. I’m just a regular girl who wants her fair portion of meat is all.
I sometimes almost wish that one day would have never happened. It’s like that book I read in middle school, Flowers for Algernon. Maybe ignorance really is bliss.
I’ll keep coming back to Chipotle hoping one day I’ll find you again. How can I not? If we lose hope what else is left in the world?