My friend Sam and I recently dined at my neighborhood Chipotle, the fast-ish Mexican food chain that seems to be challenging Starbucks for supremacy in the “How long before you see one?” game.
I added the “ish” because, although I assume my order will be prepared quickly, the reverse is often true, usually because the customer in front of me is barking out special requests as haggard employees prepare a single Burrito Bowl. Usually that customer is one of my daughters.
Chipotle, and its open kitchen design concept, has only itself to blame for this nonsense. Allowing patrons to see the food as it makes its way down the assembly line also invites them to bring the entire process to a screeching halt by saying, “One squirt of sour cream…no wait, two…wait, let me text Maddie and see how many she wants. What’s your Wi-Fi password?
Sam repeatedly checked his watch, realizing his lunch hour was becoming more than 60 minutes and perhaps a McDonald’s drive-through would have been a better choice. “How does this place make any money?” he finally grumbled.
“Are you kidding?” I countered. “THIS is exactly why Chipotle is so successful. Their fourth quarter earnings beat Wall Street estimates and their stock price has been as high as $940 a share!”
“How do you know all that?”
“I have the Wi-Fi password,” I said. “Might as well check the markets while I’m standing in line.”
“Why do you call this successful?” Sam asked, gesturing to the growing crowd.
“Simple,” I said. “Chipotle is just tapping into our desire to get exactly what we want, the way we want it. That’s the world we live in now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it, “I said. “We don’t just read or listen to the news; we read or listen to the kind of news that we, specifically want to hear. If we love Trump, we flip on Fox News so we can hear that he knows more about the coronavirus than molecular biologists. If we hate him, we watch Rachel Maddow at MSNBC scream that our president wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the virus and a case of Corona.”
“OK, but that’s just the news,” Sam said.
“It’s everything,” I replied. “Look at online dating. Now we don’t need to say we’re looking for a woman. We can request a ‘mid-’30s to early ’50s, likes kids but prefers dogs, enjoys travel but will also be up for a quiet night at home watching Netflix as long as none of her choices star Adam Sandler’ type of woman.”
“That girl sounds perfect for me!” Sam said.
“Of course she does,” I said. “Because you’re not seeking just an average date. You’re designing one to meet your specific tastes, just like everybody in this line is doing with their burritos.”
“Please don’t compare my ideal woman to a burrito.”
The line inched forward. Sam glanced at his watch again.
“You can speed things up, “I said. “When it’s your turn, just say, “A burrito with one of everything.”
“Black beans AND pinto beans?” he said. “Who does that?”
“My point exactly,” I said. “You’re no different than everybody else in line. You have your ideal lunch in mind and you’re willing to make everybody wait until you’re satisfied. You specifically.”
“I wonder if Rachel Maddow eats at Chipotle,” Sam pondered, as we eventually got our food and retreated to a corner table.
“I wonder how long before the coronavirus gets one of us,” I said.
“Yeah, you’re right. This could be our last meal together,” Sam said. “We could be dead soon. Have you thought about that?”
“I have,” I said. “I just know that, whenever I go, I want to be cremated. And my ashes scattered.”
“Scattered where?” he said.
“Well, I’d like a good portion scattered on my backyard patio, but save some for Central Park in New York, and then a few, but not too many, maybe a handful, in Wrigley Field, as long as the Cardinals aren’t in town that day. And then…”
“I get it,” Sam said. “You want the Chipotle of funerals.”
