I NEED A JOB. I don’t want a job. I hate working. But everyone hates working — and working does have its upsides. Mainly: Income, not feeling completely worthless all of the time, and being able to tell girls you meet what you “do.” Also, it’s very nice when crossing the Canadian border to be able to tell them you’re gainfully employed. There is nothing that makes a Canadian customs official’s ears perk up more than the word “unemployed.” It’s an instant red flag and you can be assured the next words out of his/her mouth will be, “Can you please step through the sliding doors marked ‘immigration’?” whereupon an unsmiling woman in a heavy-looking jacket will ask you all sorts of questions, and you will tell her you live with your parents, and that you “just graduated from university,” and you’re “just visiting a friend.” And then they will let you go, and you will get back on the bus everyone will look at you like you’re a convict.
Anyway, I need a job because the road trip is over. Back to “reality.” Yesterday on the flight back from Minneapolis I sat next to a 14-year-old kid I dubbed “porker” due to his generous proportions and the fact that he consumed sugar pretty much continuously throughout the entire flight. At one point he tried to order a Red Bull from the stewardess but couldn’t because he only had cash. He was crestfallen. I briefly thought about paying for it with my debit card and having him give me cash, but I thought, “You don’t need this, little man. You need a treadmill.”
Descending into Seattle and watching the sun set over the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I had one of those “Tomorrow is the First Day of the Rest of my Life” moments, where you think you’re going to get up the next day at 7AM, go on a 20-mile bike ride, eat a hearty breakfast, and grab the day by its proverbial horns. Now it’s 10:10AM, I’m sitting on the couch in my parents’ living room, my midriff is peeking out between my shirt and mesh basketball shorts, and I’ve spent the last hour talking to people on G-Chat. Maybe I’ll seize this afternoon by its horns.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on April 8, 2009 at 12:14 pm, filed under Uncategorized and tagged alaska airlines, Chipotle, coffman, mill district, minneapolis, mount rainier, puget sound, road trip, stone arch bridge, university of minnesota. 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.
The son shineth freely upon thy face. Ere, hath thee thy will submerged, upon which looks a dog’s tail wagging. Cometh hither, for thine hither ere hath doth will. Willeth the wither, upon hither heather, forbidden feather? Thinkest thee proud, crumbled visage worthy of freedom’s lusty quill? Think not, fiend, then, of those who think meekly on thee?
Tis I, said the fiend, who looks upon thy bosom, as I look upon an asses flanks. For morrow’s marrow I ask not. Only for to-day’s.
Next on Where’s Wetzler?: Love’s Labour’s Lost (and Found in a Chicken Burrito): Chipotle in Shakespearean Terms
This entry was written by , posted on March 5, 2009 at 4:03 pm, filed under Writingz and tagged awesome, Chipotle, fergie, shakespeare, william. 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.
“Give me as much fucking chicken as you possibly can…without charging me extra.”
– what my friend Andy’s former roommate apparently says when he orders at Chipotle
This entry was written by , posted on at 10:00 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Uncategorized and tagged chicken, Chipotle, sudoku. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
This article on The Onion is so funny and so perfect I almost can’t read it. I’m afraid I’ll spend the next 72 hours of my life grinning like an idiot. Which I probably will. God, this is great. Thank you, Sarah, for sending it in.
Chipotle Employee Just Gave Guy In Front Of You More Rice
This entry was written by , posted on January 31, 2009 at 12:31 am, filed under Uncategorized and tagged Chipotle, fuck yeah, party, pico de gallo, radness. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Good morning, everyone! I got up at 7:45 this morning without the help of an alarm clock. I’m like a goddamn farmer.
I’m trying to lose weight so I decided that this morning I would only have a pomegranate and then fast until I ate Chipotle at 3:00 with Dan. First of all, I don’t know if you’ve ever cut up and gutted a pomegranate before, but it is a messy, bloody process. It was how I imagine it would be to kill a baby wallaby with your bare hands. I felt like Bear Gryllz.
Then after about an hour of choking down pomegranate seeds I started to experience mild stomach cramps. These gave way to severe stomach cramps. Before I knew it I was on the toilet praying to the marsupial God and wondering if all those antioxidants were really worth the trouble.
Like I said, I’m going to Chipotle at 3:00. I’m really excited. I haven’t really been out of the house in the past few days so this Chipotle outing will be doubly rad. Grilled chicken, sour cream, warm tortilla, and awesome conversation about which contestant last night on Jeopardy! was a huge douche-bag. Do you envy my life? I thought so.
Anyway, if you’re going to be in the U-District around three o’clock, swing by Chipotle and give me a shout-out. Literally walk by the restaurant and shout out, “Where’s Wetzler?!” and then pump your fist and maybe put it up to your mouth and say, “Yea, boi!” It’ll be cool because I’ll just shrug it off and look at Dan and say, “Yeah, this has been happening all the time lately. It’s kind of annoying.” Even though inside I’ll be like, “Holy shit. That was awesome!”
So, uh, yeah—could you do that for me?
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 19, 2008 at 1:33 pm, filed under Chipotle, the boot and tagged bear gryllz, Chipotle, jeopardy, kill baby wallaby, messy pomegranate, shout-out. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
“Happiness, is a warm…burrito (bang, bang, shoot, shoot).”
After three days of feasting on nothing but my own self-loathing, I finally had solid foods today. They say you’re supposed to come off the Master Cleanse gradually—orange juice, then some soup, then maybe some cooked vegetables—but I went straight to Chipotle and ate a burrito the size of a child. Then, to top it off, I went to my friend Dan’s house and drank a mug of eggnog mixed with two shots of espresso. Great combo, right? Burrito and eggnog? This Master Cleanse has really led to a healthier me. Anyway, the point of this is that after not really having er—um—a bowel movement for three days, I am terrified about what is going to happen in the little room with the white seat tomorrow. Maybe I should go in there with a stick to bite on, or something.
In other news, there is going to me a massive feast/cocktail party/pre-funk/slip ‘n slide/body shot party at Darren Berg’s house in Cap Hill tomorrow. I am pumped. You are pumped. We’re all pumped. I think I’m going to show up wearing stripper heels and a mu-mu. Maybe some of those big bug glasses that all the chicks are wearing these days, too. Darren if there is Gold Strike at the party I am going to leave.
-Wetzler
Tomorrow on Where’s Wetzler:
As Promised: Naked Photos of Chauncey
This entry was written by , posted on December 12, 2008 at 2:02 am, filed under Chipotle, alcohol, master cleanse and tagged chauncey, Chipotle, gold strike, mu-mu, stripper heals, walking cast. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
1. Party like it’s 2008
2. Chase a tornado
3. Visit the French-speaking part of Louisiana
4. Climb a tall tree
5. Break my wrist
6. Go to Asia
7. Go to a rave
8. Get a job (or something)
9. Ask for a HALF chicken/HALF steak burrito at Chipotle
10. Bungee jump
How are YOUR resolutions coming? Bet they don’t include anything as audacious as number nine on my list.
See you out there.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 3, 2008 at 1:25 am, filed under Uncategorized and tagged Chipotle, tornado chasers, yeah right!. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.