An ode to my favorite Chipotle server
I like the way you roll.
I like the way you take my order just one time. You don’t ask what kind of meat I want, then heat up the tortilla, pile on my choice of rice and beans, and then ask me about the meat a second time without even bothering to acknowledge that you already asked me once, making me believe I’m the subject of a cruel psychological experiment designed to make me doubt my memory of things I’d said not 30 seconds before. Are researchers eager to determine if early-onset Alzheimer’s can be induced through repeated, subtle manipulations of a subject’s reality? Well, by God, they won’t find the answer to that question on your watch.
I like the way you’re not already scooping up black beans when you ask if I want black or pinto. You know it’s not a rhetorical question, that it’s an opportunity to express a preference that defines my very core. I’m not just a cow at the trough to you. You respect me as a person.
I like the way you yell at the kitchen to step on it when something I want is running out. You could have asked if white rice was okay, but you didn’t. You shouted, “Get me some brown rice out here, people are waiting!” Even though you said “people”, I know you meant this person. I am pointing my thumbs at myself right now, but my heart is pointed at you.
I like the way you pinch me off a little extra barbacoa, or scoop me up some bonus steak chunks. No skimping on the good stuff to boost profits at the expense of my satisfaction. When I’m in line, you forget that bottom line. When I’m in line, you’ll fight The Man to feed the man.
I like the way you don’t assume I want pico instead of hot sauce. You know papi likes it spicy.
I like the way you don’t even bother hovering expectantly over the lettuce.
I like the way you treat cheese like an essential ingredient instead of just a light garnish. You know if you only drop a few sprinkles on there I won’t even be able to taste that cheese once the burrito is complete. It takes a mound to reach my taste buds through the flour. It takes a mound.
I like the way you don’t try to up-sell me on the guacamole. You know I want what I say I want. You know that’s exactly why I want you giving it to me.
I like the way you make sure all the stuffings make it into the final product. Anything that spills onto the foil while you’re rolling, you put back into the burrito. You don’t toss it back into a bin. You don’t throw it away. You don’t force me to watch my dream die by clumsily discarding carnitas shreds.
I like the way you take over for a trainee if you see he’s not getting that all-important final step right. You know I don’t have time for training wheels. You know I shouldn’t suffer while he learns to shine. You’ll let him fumble through the next guy’s dinner. Not mine. I’m special. You’re special. We’re special together.
I like the way you roll.