(** if you have found this post because you are having chipotle diarrhea, please go here)

I went to Chipotle for dinner tonight. If you are not familiar with it, it is a now-corporate-owned chain of basic Mexican food, mainly famous for its burritos, which are the size of a Chihuahua. A silver-paper-wrapped, cylindrical Chihuahua. It is not as gringo as Taco Bell, but is still derided by Mexisnobs as inauthentic. Should I care about this? I could go into the local hot dog joint and complain that their brats are weak and boiled and served without proper sauerkraut (always with caraway seeds, thanks) and brown mustard, but I don’t. WTF is “authentic food?” I don’t care who makes it or how, as long as I LIKE IT. I like those burritos. They are cheap and yummy and filling and taste fresh.

I also have a sentimental fondness for Chipotle. The first one was located in Denver on Evans Avenue by the University of Denver, down the block from my house, and across the street from my children’s schools on the campus. It is tiny with just a few seats, and you would often see people, mainly students, lined up far out the door to get their Chihuaburritos. It reminds me of a time and a place that was good. They also support sustainable agriculture, so nyah nyah, snobs.

I can’t even finish half of one of those burritos, but that’s OK. A half a burrito, a Corona Light, and some nice old feelings make for a good meal.