When it comes to meals, I’m the kind of person that will always seek out a food truck or acclaimed local joint before I succumb to hunger and settle for a chain restaurant. Some call me a foodie. Others call me obnoxious. Regardless of my title, maintaining consistent standards of culinary excellence comprises a large part of my life.
As many other food-seekers know, however, you can’t always adhere to those standards. Sometimes there are no novel places around. Sometimes you don’t have the battery on your phone to sift through Yelp ratings. Sometimes the barbecue seitan with jicama and microgreens on vegan ciabatta costs more than you’re willing to shell out on your lunch break.
That, my fellow foodies, is where Chipotle comes in. Seldom have I been in an area where there wasn’t a Chipotle in the radius of a few miles, ready to serve me with grotesque quantities of rice, beans and mild salsa. Is Chipotle a chain? Yes. Does anyone care? Absolutely not. If anyone ever questions your love for infant-sized burritos, just say you watched Inside Chipotle on Netflix and know how sustainable and caring they are. Also, have you had their chips?
But even if Chipotle is a constant when regional cuisine fluctuates, my travels have taught me a key piece of information: not all Chipotles are created equal. For this reason, I implore you to listen to my tale — sometimes of triumph, and sometimes of terror — of faux Mexican restaurants across the country.*
Our story begins in an outdoor shopping mall in the humble city of Cranston, Rhode Island. This is where my great saga of Chipotle experiences began many years ago. As you enter, the dining room is spacious yet homey. And if the plywood and metal scrap decorations along the walls don’t make you feel safe, the employees will. They will take you by the hand and guide you in your burrito-making process, whether you are a novice or a taco-seasoned veteran. White rice? You got it. Chicken? Let me toss on a little more for you, pal. When you ask for guacamole, you are gently reminded, “Guac costs extra.” But it is said sincerely with a tear in one’s eye, as if Drake is sorrowfully preparing your meal. You don’t deserve to be hurt like this.
That all changed when I moved to New York City for a summer internship. When dining on the gray, office-lined streets of Manhattan, Chipotle was the beacon of hope in a sea of take-out places that serve exclusively salad. Can you honestly say that you’re satisfied from a restaurant called “Just Salad”?
Little did I know that New York Chipotle would include trials and tribulations of its own. Upon entrance, I am met with the familiar scent of cilantro and grilled meat, but it is considerably darker inside than other Chipotles. Also, is it colder in here, or is that just our souls? I get in line behind the other corporate lunch break patrons, the barbacoa haze shrouding our faces like the city smog.
When I finally arrive at the counter, like a meaningless cog on a factory conveyor belt, the tempo picks up tenfold. Think less “Marvin’s Room” Drake and more “Worst Behavior.” I inhale to announce my order, but I’m too late — looks like she’s making me a burrito bowl. On goes the rice. The pinto beans. I can hear the line growing behind me. I can’t keep up. At this speed, I’m not even sure she told me that guac costs extra. Before I’ve decided whether I want hot or corn salsa, it’s already being topped with cheese and sent to the cashier. After fumbling for my wallet and taking more than the recommended two milliseconds to pay for my order, I leave Chipotle in humiliation — but not before bumping into the ravenous crowd entering Chipotle with reckless abandon.
At the summer’s end, however, I return to my college town of Providence, Rhode Island. The air is clearer and no longer humid. Streets with taxis going 80 are replaced with winding hills, and impeccably dressed businesswomen are replaced with my fellow students that somehow will always be wearing cooler clothes than I. But like Cranston and New York, there’s a Chipotle.
It is at this Chipotle I seek solace. I seek freedom from homework, tests and extravagant extracurricular commitments. And unlike the emotional distance from my Manhattan Chipotle, Providence’s Chipotle proudly takes me under its wings — wings that are presumably from the chicken I get in my burrito. Upon entrance, I am met with students like myself, all looking forward to their tacos or quesadillas in glorious solidarity.
Once I get in line, I am no longer a nameless face in the crowd — I am an individual. When I ask the server for white rice, I have time to have a conversation about it. Please, tell me more about the lime and cilantro seasoning. By the end of the line, I feel like I know him. I even consider asking for his number to get to know him better. Not even in a romantic way — I just want to talk to him. The Providence Chipotle leaves me rejuvenated. I was once a jaded girl with a tasteless burrito bowl, and now, I am ready to soothe my weary soul with a serving size as large as my head.
But guacamole still costs extra.
*Okay, two states may not be the most representative sample size.
image via
featured image via