What The Fudge: The Burrito Line, by Matt Shirley

Published: January 21, 2010Posted in: Matt Shirley
What The Fudge: The Burrito Line, by Matt Shirley

What the Fudge? (WTFg) is a series of articles in which Matt delves into various subjects that beguile him, provoke him, and/or generally piss him off.  Some would characterize these annoying occurrences as ‘pet peeves,’ but he won’t because he thinks that term is stupid.  WTFg allows Matt to do one of his favorite activities: complain.  Plus, he gets to write an italicized introduction about himself in the 3rd person, which is also pretty sweet.

The Chipotle I frequent is often busy, at least when school’s in session.  The long lines—sometimes long enough to snake out from the depths of the store into the luke warm winter air—are mostly comprised of Loyola Marymount students, eager to use their parents’ money to buy a ½ lb. chicken burrito with guacamole and a Diet Coke.

Sometimes while I’m there, I channel my inner Louis C.K. (the comedian) and pick out someone to hate—some guy wearing one of those Dopey-from-The-Seven-Dwarves hats or a pair of Middle Eastern gentlemen sporting identical Blue-Tooth hands-free devices—but most times, I pretend to send text messages so all the cool LMU students will think that even though I’m at Chipotle alone, I still have friends.  But neither the line, nor the people within it, is what sometimes makes me fantasize about firebombing the whole place.

It’s that one worker—the one at the end of the line, who asks you if you want cheese or lettuce—that does it.

Upon further rumination, the ordering process doesn’t start out too pleasantly either I suppose.  The guy in front of me has a list in his hands, which is automatically bad news.  When Sandra asks him what he wants, he looks down at his list and says, “For the first one, I need a steak burrito with lettuce, cheese, sour cream, corn salsa, black beans, and no rice.”  Sandra and I exchange a knowing look: we have a Chipotle amateur on our hands. Eventually she straightens him out and even though our line hasn’t moved, she turns to me for my order.

As a Chipotle-master, I riddle off my order like the experienced veteran I am.  Four words: Carnitas burrito.  Black beans.  End of conversation.  But my efficiency backfires, because even though our line still hasn’t moved, Sandra focuses to the couple behind me, and after using some questionable attention-getting techniques, takes their orders as well.

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.  The line is beginning to cram together; a bottleneck has formed at the cash register.  And it will only get worse.

Next, I get to repeat my meat order to Jose.  I suppose it’s my fault really.  Sandra didn’t need to know what kind of burrito I wanted, only if I wanted her to steam up a tortilla for me.  But I’d feel odd just saying “One burrito please.”  To me that sounds like I’m giving them the liberty to make whatever sort of burrito they want.  Which is certainly not the case—I’m not interested in a burrito with mushrooms and Skittles in it.  Jose drops some meat on my tortilla and sends her on her way.  But I’m getting more uncomfortable now.  My burrito is getting away from me.

The burrito assembly line though, will not rest.  Rosa has my burrito now and she wants to put some salsa on her (the burrito, not in any attempt at seducing me Mexican-style).  But instead of asking me which type I prefer, she stares down the man in front of me, and quietly asks, “Salsa?”  The man looks down at his list, confused.  He is quite sure this burrito isn’t his, but who is he to tell the girl making burritos that she is wrong.  “Umm, hot,” he finally replies.

No!  An imposter!  That’s my burrito he is trying to hijack!  This transgression cannot stand.  And so just as she raises her spoon to apply a dollop of hot salsa on my burrito, I ‘m forced to raise my voice impolitely—trying not to sound too whiney—and sternly report, “That’s mine!”

Both Rosa and dipshit look at me apologetically and I fake-smile my way through ordering my favored salsa.  Rosa applies the corn that I want, and passes the burrito on its way.  But still I haven’t moved but a couple feet, my burrito getting farther and farther away from her owner with each passing moment.

I break eye contact with my beloved, and look down at my phone again.  Because I know what is about to happen.

“Sir?,” I hear from the end of the assembly line, “Is this your burrito?”  It is my burrito, but I act like I don’t hear him.  “SIR?!?” he yells again.  I’m forced to look  up.  Our eyes meet and Roberto is looking at me expectantly.  He says something that I don’t hear, as I’m still standing in front of Jose the meat man, but I know what he’s asking me.  Do I want cheese or sour cream?  I look at him helplessly.  I am quite aggravated now.  I have no desire to yell my order across the room, over a half-dozen other patrons’ heads.  I give him a look that says, “Can’t you wait until I’m in front of you?  Or at least within a five foot radius?  What, do you get paid by the burrito?” But he ignores it, and unsettles my resolve by making a move to the sour cream dipper.  I don’t want that ejaculate-esque semi-liquid tainting my burrito so I blurt out my answer “cheese and lettuce!” from an almost comical distance.  He doesn’t hear me, again reaches for the sour cream and I must repeat, this time in a more hostile tone—a tone that mirrors my current mood—“CHEESE AND LETTUCE ONLY PLEASE!!!”  As Roberto gives me a dirty look, he packs my burrito full of lettuce and cheese and wraps her up in a tin foil casing that will prevent anyone besides me from spoiling her innocence.

Now the waiting game begins.  And the source of all these problems becomes evident.  There is only one cash register open, and no matter how efficient the workers before him are, the cashier can only process so many orders per minute.  My burrito must wait, just like many others, for this harried boy—the boy with the best English abilities—to sack every burrito, ask each patron if they’d like a drink, and ring up all of the orders.  The poor kid is busier than a one-armed hand-job specialist at a gangbang convention.   While this happens, the burritos behind him stack up even further, in different stages of development.  My burrito sits in reverie, looking back at her roots with both positive and negative thoughts about her journey from burrito infancy (a tortilla with rice) through puberty (plus meat) to her current state of adulthood.  And I stand, unmoving, both still seething and anticipatory, ready to be done with the whole process.

Eventually the line moves and after re-reminding the useless guy with the sharpie what type of burrito I ordered, I pay, and I sit down with my purchase.  And as I take the first bite of my burrito, I think about how much we’ve been through and suddenly, all of that hassle we went through—from Dopey-hat to Jose to the near-foodjack to the sour cream incident—is forgotten, and I realize that it’s all worth it, as long as we can be together.  Me and my burrito.