Confessions of a burrito snob
Spent the evening at an overpriced mexican place with a bunch of very nice art teachers. Very nice art teachers who do not primarily pay all of their bills from their art gigs. Nice art teachers who are all married to dentists and engineers.
I made the mistake of ordering a burrito.
Note to self
Never order a burrito in a joint that is playing Handel.
When it arrived I had a hard time finding it at first. Then I had a disconcerting flashback to another burrito in another city. I thought Muttonham was above that sort of thing (Mutton is home of the immortal Burrito Real! fer cryin' out loud!)
It was as flaccid as a New York burrito. The tortilla was damp. There was poorly disguised mayonaisse on the salad. It was about 3/4 of an inch tall and buried under a blanket of brown stuff they told me was mole. The ends weren't tucked in, they were hanging off the plate. The chicken filling was accompanied by a little bit of cheese, but not much else. A burrito that was meant to be consumed by knife-and-fork is no burrito at all.
Cheese does not a burrito filling make. As much as I adore Handel, he is not a necessary burrito ingredient.
I was just having a fantasy about a real burrito... a real burrito arrives wrapped in foil... it doesn't need a plate... you peel off the aluminum and find the end, wrinkly like a newborn babe... you bite into it, and it explodes so you have to quick take another bite... its like a potpourrie... rice mingles with individual beans (hola tomas! hola roberto!).. recognizable meat, a little cheese, veggies and of course, salsa! Flavors compete... like a complex red wine, no two bites are the same.