There’s only one place to wash away your sins when you’ve abandoned your holier self. And that is Chipotle. Never has one restaurant been more of a comfort to me in the bowels of the worst hangovers of my life.
It was there for me after my 22nd birthday. That night three friends, a bouncer and a cabbie had to put me down while I was shouted at hot boys and waived my princess wand. Then there were uncomfortable levels of nausea in my friends’ converted one bedroom apartment and eventually the glorious sleep of a woman who should have been declared dead. The only thing that motivated me to leave the couch the next day (besides relief from the putrid odor of vomit) was that there was a Chipotle down the street from my friends.
When you are dragging from the previous night of heavy drinking, entering Chipotle is like crawling back into the womb. You know you’ve failed as an adult and it’s time to give up. Grab a barbacoa burrito and hang your head in shame. Don’t attempt to shower. Don’t even put on pants. Your mother’s womb and Chipotle serve the same purpose – to feed you at your most vulnerable. And whether you are covered in glitter or embryonic fluid – you will be filled with love in your state of nakedness and disgrace.
I consumed too much rum and beer this past Friday. Or maybe the rum and the beer consumed me. And so I slept until well after most of the living world had finished their triathlon practice and I drove myself to the walkable Chipotle. I stared at the board of delicious choices and resigned myself to a 1,500 calorie solution to a 2,000 calorie mojito problem. And I hid in a shady spot in an outdoor courtyard and consumed my tortilla of humiliation. And ever so slowly, with forkfuls of chipotle lime rice – I felt like Lazarus. I found my powers of speech, color returned to the landscape around me and my body could move in predictable ways.
That is to say – Chipotle is my Jesus. As it has the power to raise the dead.