I didn’t see a polar bear. And I didn’t see the northern lights. Actually, that’s not true: on Alaska Airlines flight 52 from Barrow to Fairbanks I saw a thin band of glowing light out the window somewhere around Anaktuvak Pass that I think were the northern lights, albeit in a muted form. I am back in Seattle now. It is warm. I can go outside and pee on things and my wiener will not fall off. Praise Jesus.
Some photos from my last day in Barrow:
Home away from home, sweet home.
View from in front of the Airport Inn facing south.
Air conditioning.
Hypothermia ain’t shit when you got myrrh.
You know when you go to go down the slide and you realize your ass cheeks are literally frozen together? Special feeling.
Chukchi Sea. Miles and miles of desolate wasteland.
A few minutes with the ice scraper and she should be good to drive.
Frozen Chukchi bluffs.
This entry was written by , posted on December 23, 2009 at 8:18 pm, filed under Alaska, Chipotle, Ravenna, alcohol and tagged ak, Alaska, barrow, norther lights. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
This entry was written by , posted on November 21, 2009 at 1:58 pm, filed under Chipotle, The Bark and Marry, Uncategorized and tagged eastlake, new moon, party, rob dyrdek, seattle, twilight. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
I just made a perfectly melted (not microwaved!) quesadilla, complete with sauteed mushrooms and onions, and sour cream and salsa on the side. Now, I know this is not something to brag about, but given the limited ingredients at my house and the fact that I am a man, I sort of feel like I just made a bonfire by rubbing together a couple of pencils.
This entry was written by , posted on April 8, 2009 at 3:39 pm, filed under Chipotle, Uncategorized and tagged hell's kitchen, vegetarian quesadilla, wolfgang puck. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
It’s freezing in Minnesota. I’m sitting in a Bruegger’s Bagels and my hands still haven’t thawed out. Bruegger’s Bagels, if you’ve never been there, is awful. That is, of course, unless you’re the type of person who likes paying seven dollars for a shitty-ass panini that leaves you hungrier than when you came. Then it’s paradise.
The worst part is there’s a Chipotle across the street. Probably the only Chipotle in all of Minneapolis. Lee and I were walking down University Avenue after crossing the Stone Arch Bridge towards where we thought might be food when I half-jokingly quipped, “What if there’s a Chipotle there?” We rounded the corner of University and Hennepin and there it was: Fate, wrapped in a tortilla.
Except we didn’t eat there. We decided to try something new. And different. And awful.
In related news, the other day we DID go to Chipotle in Los Angeles, and it was OK. My friend Andy said the line was longer than he’d ever seen it, which didn’t surprise me because once people in Los Angeles catch on to something trendy, they catch on with a vengeance. I assumed the line would move quickly as it does in Seattle, but it crawled along at a wounded salamander’s pace. Then, when we were ordering, I had my arm resting resting on the glass, leaning on it casually like a person does when he/she owns the place, and the woman in line behind me said to the employee crafting her burrito, “Sorry, I would tell you what I want, but I don’t want to talk through someone’s armpit.”
Excuse me? You come in to my fucking house and talk to me like that? I was furious. This woman embodied everything I despise about California, and here she was, in a holy place, talking like a goddamn moron. When asked what kind of salsa she wanted she responded, “What are my options?” What are your options? Walk outside to the parking lot and step in front of a fucking car. That’s your option. Either that or say fresh tomato, hot, and get on with it. Christ.
Anyway, people like her are one of the reasons why we had to leave LA. I mean, I bet if I was to walk in to the Chipotle across the street here in Minneapolis I would find no woman resembling this botoxed hag. Not in good ‘ol Heartland, America. Sure, the customers might not be Chipotle professionals, but at least they’d have a little common sense. Be able to tell their asses from their elbows; their sour creams from their guacs.
Tomorrow, when I have a little more common sense myself and decide not to go to Bruegger’s, maybe I’ll confirm that this is true.
Until then,
Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on April 6, 2009 at 5:11 pm, filed under Chipotle and tagged Chipotle, gophers, heaven, how i met your mother, minneapolis. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Dear Mr. Chipotle,
The other day I went for lunch with a prospective roommate and she asked for extra sour cream on her burrito. What does this mean? Should I live with this girl?
Signed,
Confused
Dear Confused,
The short answer to your question is “yes”: you should live with this girl. The long answer is as follows:
The fact that your prospective roommate had the guts to ask for extra of any of the ingredients is a good sign. For whatever reason, people tend to be abnormally passive in the Chipotle ordering line, almost as if they know it is a process that has been designed by a higher being and therefore would feel silly doing anything to interfere with it. I once asked for extra sour cream myself and it was one of the scarier things I have ever done. Before doing it I slammed a few shots of Makers just to get up the courage.
Now, the fact that out of all the ingredients your prospective roomate could’ve asked for more of she asked for sour cream is even more telling. Sour cream, for all you Chipotle amateurs, is the most important ingredient in the burrito. This may seem like a bold claim, so I’ll say it again: IT’S THE MOST IMPORTANT INGREDIENT IN THE BURRITO. It is the yin to the salsa’s yang. The mediator that keeps the rice from quarrelling with the beans. I once took a first date to Chipotle and when we got to the end of the ordering line she asked for NO sour cream. It was the first time I have ever considered hitting a girl.
To sum up, the fact that your prospective roommate enjoys sour cream tells me she has a refined palate. It tells me she’s intelligent. It tells me she has a visceral understanding of the words “synergy” and “cohesion.” The fact that she asked for EXTRA sour cream tells me she’s brave. It tells me she has courage. I would use the word “spunky” here but it’s one of my least favorite words of all time. Bottom line is this: If I was on Mount Everest and my expedition had to tether into teams of two to cross an icy crevasse, I would trust this girl with my life.
And trust is the most important quality in a roommate, right?
Sincerely,
Mr. Chipotle
This entry was written by , posted on March 6, 2009 at 3:23 pm, filed under Chipotle and tagged chicken burrito, mr. chipotle, sour cream, the ave, university way, uw. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
So, I know I’m kind of beating a dead horse with the whole Chipotle thing. Or beating a live horse. Or beating a live cow. Or beating a live chicken. Or beating a live free-range chicken that would taste beautifully, grilled. But ANYWAY, I’ve decided to try to put a rest to the Chipotle thing in the only way I know how: I’m turning it over to you. That’s right, today’s post will divulge a list of secrets designed to help you graduate from “Chipotle Amateur” to “Chipotle Pro.”
Ordering
The amateur will often dawdle when he/she is ordering. She’ll look at the menu, squint her eyes, and turn to her friend. “Have you ever had carnitas?” she’ll ask. “Oh my God, no,” her friend will reply, “I like, don’t even know what that is.” She’ll look around some more, perplexed, and then order what she always orders: A veggie burrito with no beans. Meanwhile, a couple people back, I am quietly stabbing myself to death, unable to watch the scene unfold.
The pro, on the other hand, never dawdles1. The pro strides confidently to the counter, orders a chicken burrito with black beans, watches as the employee with whom he/she has developed a rapport and might even socialize with on the weekends scoop chicken onto the burrito in great quantities, and moves along. The pro then smiles politely but sincerely at the rest of the employees, gets fresh tomato and hot salsa, sour cream and cheese, sometimes lettuce, and moves on to pay.
The Pro: All neural transmitters save those in mouth have shut down. Meditative, trance-like state. Serotonin levels similar to an ecstasy overdose.
Beverages
It’s easy to spot the amateurs at the University Way Chipotle location: They’re 95 percent of the clientele. This is because a cup for fountain pop is free with a Husky Card, and amateurs always take advantage of this free pop. Pros, on the other hand, never drink pop with Chipotle. Would you accompany a perfect cut of filet mignon with a large Mr. Pibb? Maybe if you’re six and nobody likes you. Conversely, a pro will never muddle the delicacy that is Chipotle with high-fructose corn syrup and artificial colorings. A pro will get water and put a dash of fresh-cut lemon in it, and if he/she is a real pro, he/she’ll get soda water with a dash of lemon. Now I know, some of you are saying “Soda water? Soda water is disgusting.” I used to think it was disgusting, too. And then my palate matured. Weird.
Eating
You know how some people say that the best part of eating isn’t eating at all, but the conversation? Those people have never eaten at Chipotle. A Chipotle pro knows that when you’re eating a Chipotle burrito your friends are momentarily (when properly engrossed it shouldn’t take more than a few moments) the 8th or 9th most important thing in your life (behind the chicken, tortilla, black beans, pico de gallo, etc.). Eating a Chipotle burrito requires your full attention, not unlike the Spanish-English interpretation certification test I absolutely destroyed yesterday morning. It’s kind of like raising a child (which is funny, because given the size, it’s also kind of like eating a child): If you’re not ready to devote your full attention and your life to your little one, don’t even think about having one. Likewise, if you’re not ready to devote your full attention to your burrito, don’t even walk in the door. Go to McDonald’s and pretend your life has purpose and ambition. It won’t work, though.
The Amateur: “Hi, my name is Cameron. I used to get beat up in high school. I wear awful flannel shirts. I hate myself.”
Conclusion
Yesterday when I was enjoying a chicken burrito and was about half way through, coming up for my first breath of air, I noticed a couple across the way from me eating what appeared to be cheese quesadillas. Cheese quesadillas. At Chipotle. That’s like going into the Louvre and directly bypassing the Mona Lisa for some fourth-rate Caravaggio painting of a 16th century Florentine girl staring at a gourde. I thought about saying something but then noticed that the female contingent was casting me furtive glances. Now, I don’t like to boast, but this is not the first time this has happened to me at Chipotle. Women love confidence, and I’m no more confident than at Chipotle. It was obvious that when she saw the massive burrito slain at my feet it triggered some kind of primal instinct inside her that said, “This man provide for you. This man kill beast. Give home. Love long time.” She then looked over at her boyfriend2, saw a withered quesadilla, and the same instinct said, “This man weak. Collect Magic cards. Not kill mastodon.” What her instinct more succinctly said, however, was “This man amateur; Other man pro.”
And instincts never lie.
1Unless, of course, the pro is ordering something that only a pro would order. “Can I get a thrice-steamed tortilla, black beans, 60 percent chicken, 30 percent steak, and 10 percent extra guac?”
2In retrospect, there’s no way this could have been her boyfriend. It must have been her brother. No self-respecting man I know would let his girlfriend spend an entire meal making sex eyes at an anonymous 25-year-old hoodie-wearing stranger across the way.
This entry was written by , posted on February 28, 2009 at 1:30 pm, filed under Chipotle and tagged chicken burrito, Chipotle, free range, perrier, quesadilla, soda water. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
I went to Chipotle tonight with one simple goal: to document the “typical” Chipotle experience. Nothing special—just everything that happens in between the words, “Can I get a chicken burrito with black beans–“ to the wax paper sliding off the red plastic basket into the trash at the very end. I went solo to in an attempt to keep the variables as controlled as possible. Keep it “typical.” What I forgot, however, is that Chipotle doesn’t do “typical;” Chipotle does “transcendental.” Chipotle does, “Welcome to paganism. Prepare to worship a flower tortilla filled with meat, cheese and pico de gallo for the rest of your life.” In other words, Chipotle does amazing.
And tonight was no different.
I should have known something was up when I saw the line out the door. Despite Chipotle’s immense popularity, this rarely happens. Granted it was around 7:00pm on a school night next to one of the largest universities in the country, but still—I could sense something was different.
The air was cold and brisk and every other word that’s been used to describe a foggy February night in Seattle. In line behind me was a girl on her cell phone and in front of me a group of three guys, one of whom was clad only in a t-shirt. After about five minutes one of them turned to me and asked, “Do you want a free burrito?” and thrust a white stub of paper towards me.
“Do I—Do I want—Do I want a…” I couldn’t talk. No matter how hard I tried to stimulate my vocal chords no sound came out.
“Thank you,” I finally managed. “What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, they’re doing something for career week. Giving out free burritos. We had an extra one.”
“I’m in love with you,” I said. “I know you’re a man, but I. Am. In. Love. With. You.” I contemplated kneeling on the concrete and kissing his feet.
The line moved quickly as it usually does. Up ahead at the glass counter separating the ingredients from the seething masses I could see the whir of hands deftly assembling burritos. When I got to the front of the line I did something I had never done before. Before I could stop myself the words were already out of my mouth. “Can I get burrito with half steak half chicken?” I asked. I felt my balls drop about a half inch but the guy behind the counter didn’t even flinch. And he didn’t do half scoops either. Two full scoops of free range chicken and marinated slow-grilled beef. I almost started crying.
When I got to the end I realized that because this burrito would be free I could get guacamole and not have to pay the $1.62 extra (yes, it went up). So I did. And she heaped it on in great mounds, and before anyone knew it the chicken and steak was swimming in green goodness.
The word “jovial” sort of begins to describe the atmosphere in Chipotle when I sat down. Imagine Christmas morning, Thanksgiving afternoon, evening on St. Patricks day, midnight on Halloween, and sunset on the longest day of the year—all rolled into one—and you kind of get the idea. I saw complete strangers with their arms around each other embracing like old friends; A girl passing around her burrito urging everyone to take a bite insisting between gasps and smiles that it was “the best she’d ever had.” I sat there, taking it all in, methodically biting on the gift from above that had be presented to me just minutes before. Have you ever experienced what it’s like to bite into a burrito and taste chicken, guacamole, AND steak? I wish you had, just so I wouldn’t have to try to describe it. How do you describe an experience in which you didn’t even feel present in your body, but rather hovering a few feet above, unable to do anything but nod approvingly?
Just before I got up to leave a girl in the round table next to me asked a person in line (the line was inside the restaurant at this point, snaking between tables, something I’ve never seen before and will probably never see again) if he would take a picture of her group, and I thought to myself, In the last two days, I have seen two situations in which people have asked strangers to take their pictures: One was at the beach in Maui, and the other was this evening at Chipotle. Which of course begs the comparison and the eventual question: Would you rather have thirty minutes at Chipotle or thirty minutes in Maui. Thirty minutes in paradise, or thirty minutes at the beach?
I think you know my answer.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on February 8, 2009 at 11:40 pm, filed under Chipotle and tagged boyz, chicken burrito, Chipotle, girls, guacamole, happiness, in line, pico de gallo, steak burrito. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
I went to Chipotle today for the first time in a while (3.5 days). I ordered a chicken burrito because I don’t hate myself, and watched as the girl with the crooked-yet-endearing smile flashed me a knowing wink before heaping on great mounds of fire-grilled chicken. During the wrapping stage a new employee encountered trouble when the burrito burst under the girth of its delicious contents, and the girl with the crooked smile was forced to leave her post and assist in wrapping the thing she had so recently designed for my now-gaping maw.
“¡Es un burro!” the novice said, which basically means “This is huge!” but literally translates to “It’s a donkey.”
Indeed it was. A fresh tortilla was steamed to take over where a weaker one had broken and I stood by watching, rapt with delight.
And then I ate it in just under 6.4 seconds.
“Jesus, you eat Chipotle fast,” said my friend Morgan, causing me to beam like a 6 year-old girl who’s just played well at her first piano recital.
“It’s good to be back,” I thought.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on January 19, 2009 at 8:17 pm, filed under Chipotle and tagged ave, barbacoa, carnitas, chicken burrito, chipotle diaries, steak, university way, uw. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Though a bit late, Neil Cameron’s recent submission has won the Wetzlerville 2009 “Post a Comment From the Most Exotic Location Possible” Contest Extravaganza. Apparently he’s in Scotland right now drinking “7 different types of single malt whiskey” and probably watching Rob Roy on DVD and playing with a sword. Merry Christmas Neil, you are a man among boys. We in America (’Merca) salute you.
-Wetzler
p.s. I’m not joking when I say that Nancy was semi lit last night. I’ve never heard anyone play “Away in a Manger” with such gusto.
This entry was written by , posted on December 25, 2008 at 10:08 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Central America, Chipotle, Ravenna, Song of the Day, Uncategorized, master cleanse, the boot and tagged wetzlerville 2009. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Last year I took a bike trip from Seattle to Vancouver by myself. On the first night I slept in a field next to a church. On the second day I rode over a hundred miles. It is one of my favorite memories from last summer.
A Wetzler brimming with confidence and expectation gets a late 3:00pm start from near U-Village.
Base camp is set up in a field near a Methodist church in Arlington. Highlights from day one: coasting through the lush forests of Skagit Valley on silent bike trails; drinking a Guinness before bed. Sixty-something miles down.
The morning after sleeping like a baby in the field.
Base camp with supplies.
The haggard face of radness (morning after sleeping in the field).
Lunch on day two before tackling the breathtaking hills of Chuckanut drive.
Mile X of over one hundred on day two. Blazing hot August day. Crossed Canadian customs on bike. Awesome.ww
This entry was written by , posted on December 24, 2008 at 4:54 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Chipotle, Ravenna, Uncategorized and tagged bike ride, bike trip, chuckanut drive, cycling, haggard, rhododendron cafe, seattle vancouver party. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.