I love Chipotle.
I speak of the restaurant like a friend. Indeed, its silver-encased burritos are beyond acquaintances; they’re more like cheap hookers I pay $6 to hang out with for 15 minutes.
But in those 15 minutes, they satisfy me in ways a whore never could. Everything about Chipotle is brilliant. The other day, over the stereo, I heard an old Chipotle classic — Massive Attack’s “Angel.” What splendid burrito-eating music! It was soon followed by Yo La Tengo’s “Season of the Shark” and an ambient track by Brian Eno. My tears salted my burrito. Oh, what sweet, delicious sorrow!
Today I will enjoy a burrito for the 34th day in a row. This is partially because the restaurant is in my backyard, partially because I don’t know how to cook, partially because I’ve been getting some burritos for free and mostly because I fucking love Chipotle. It began as an accident — five- and six-day streaks are commonplace in my life — but once I hit double-digits, I knew something special was happening.
My anti-Lent has been “Super Size Me,” except not disgusting. This is because I order a delicate burrito that does not melt my innards — no beans, and rarely do I get salsa. I only eat the 1,200-calorie burritos once a day, as opposed to Morgan Spurlock’s three meals a day — were I to do that, I’d be like that guy at the beginning of “Seven.” The hole in my stomach would be spewing rice, but the look on my face would be utter delight.
Like a good movie, Chipotle is a self-contained, well-organized world. I can think of no other restaurant wherein most of my conversations revolve around how awesome said restaurant is. While in Boston visiting my sister over spring break, I found myself parched and dizzy. I asked Kelly where the nearest Chipotle was; she responded by saying that there were no Chipotles in Boston. I nearly fainted.
Noticing my paleness and shortness of breath, Kelly dragged me to a curious restaurant called Qdoba. It was the dollar store to Chipotle’s K-Mart. The food was served out of plastic bins — not the sturdy stainless steel that carresses my free-range steak. The sneezeguard was too big, making me feel distant from my burrito handlers, of which there were no less than four. They might as well have been robots. They certainly weren’t my friends at 711 Church St.
Qdoba failed to carry the McIlhenny smoked Chipotle Tabasco sauce. For this alone it deserved to be firebombed.
Certainly there’s an element of corporate conformity going on in “Chipotes,” as we call it — the useless trivia that Chipotle is owned by McDonald’s, the consistent decor, your “that’s not real Mexican food” party-pooper friend. Well, clearly. But there’s something to be said for going to a restaurant and knowing that you’re going to get a superb product for less than $6 (depending on taxes). To make this piece remotely about movies, I compare it to going to a multiplex — sometimes the ends justify the means. If I have to see “Million Dollar Baby” with a shrieking baby in the front row, so be it. It’s really not all that different from watching somebody order soft tacos.
Last winter, I took a pilgrimage to the original Chipotle in Denver. Though mired in graffiti and much smaller than the beautiful photograph at each Chipotle restaurant would lead you to believe, I enjoyed one of the finest burritos ever. To commemorate the visit, I stole a red basket.
I saw “21 Grams” at the critic’s screening room in downtown Chicago. Prior to arriving, I visited the nearby Chipotle on Michigan Avenue (where, incidentally, I once participated in a Chipotle formal). This Chipotle suffers from the same flaw as others; namely, they have only one cash register. Humans are superior to machines at these restaurants, and waiting patiently for your silver soldier to be released is one of the small, rewarding pains of the restaurant.
In any case, I had to get my burrito to go, and take it to the screening room. Once there, I tried carefully to eat it in my seat. Meanwhile, the hot shot Chicago critics — Ebert, Rosenbaum, Wilmington — filed in. I was covered in cilantro-speckled rice. The lights went down and the movie started, and I fumbled in the dark as I loudly completed my burrito.
It was a joyous moment — watching a movie whilst devouring a tortilla brick of joy. So often Chipotle bookends my moviegoing experiences; so rarely do they get to coexist. Both the cinema and the burrito are near-religious experiences — one asks you to sit in humble silence before an enormous celluloid God, the other beckons you to take communion.
But if somebody tries to eat a burrito during a movie, tell them to stop. It’s a terrible idea.
Communication junior Kyle Smith is the PLAY film columnist. He can be reached at [email protected].
