An Open Letter to Chipotle

Just two of my kids enjoying your fine cuisine.  These two aren't even the messiest.

Dear Chipotle,

First of all, I need to thank you.  Eight years ago, after completing my first half marathon, I sunk my teeth into my first burrito and it was love at first bite.  You became my very favorite post-race beast feast spot.  With my running days on temporary hiatus I’ve pared down to a burrito bowl, but still nothing beats your cilantro lime rice.  And you, dear Chipotle, are the only fast food establishment that my husband and I can agree on.  This is no small feat.  You’ve saved our marriage (or at least money on therapy- all problems can be solved over your chips and guac).

Now that I have kids I’m even more indebted to you Chipotle.  There are very few places I can go with the kind of quality food you provide.  Nothing fried, or chock full of preservatives and crap.  And my kids LOVE you.  Because of you Chipotle my daughter asks for rice and beans whenever and wherever we eat out.  Even at restaurants that do not carry rice and beans.  They are always up for Chipotle, just like their mom.

Which brings me to my real reason for writing, dear Chipotle.  I feel as though it’s time for me to address the one sided, almost abusive, nature of our relationship.  I’ve been a taker with you, Chipotle.  You give and give and give and I do nothing but take.  And it’s time for me to apologize. 

I can see the look of fear in the eyes of your wonderful employees when my brood and I come through your doors.  Three small children are no one’s favorite customers.  But for you, Chipotle, those rice and beans we love so much are the very bane of your existence I’m sure.  I know you know what’s coming when I stroll through the line asking for two kid’s quesadilla meals and extra sides of rice and beans.  I can see the resignation on your face and the knowledge that 75% of those tiny grains of rice and sauce covered beans will end up on your floor.  I’m sorry.  I feel the deflation when you size up the eight-month-old in my arms and realize that extra order of rice and beans is for her.  I’m so very sorry.  And yet despite the food explosion that we both know is coming, your employees are nothing but kind, helpful and upbeat.  It's a miracle really.

Please know that I try my hardest to clean up after the animals have feasted.  As you can see by the bean sauce that covers my eight-month-old’s hair, ears, eyes and hands, she is not exactly a neat eater.  Rice is stuck on every inch of her body and somehow made its way into her socks.  I wish the mess was contained to her being but alas it is not.  Bean sauce covers every surface within her reach and even, inexplicably, the table next to ours.  I use eleventy million wet wipes to wipe down these surfaces and give her a bath in your bathroom sink.  I wipe off the piles of rice and beans scattered on the chairs of my other two children.  But it’s the floor that defeats me.  The floor, so covered with rice and beans, now looks as though my children’s meals actually exploded at some point.   I only purchased three orders of rice and beans, but like rabbits that wonderful combination of carbs and protein appears to have multiplied.  At least eight orders worth are now covering your floor.  I’m not sure my kids consumed the food as much as smeared it on their faces and clothing before brushing it onto the ground.

I’ve thought about asking if I could borrow your broom, but you are so dear Chipotle that I know that you would never let me do it myself.  I’ve even thought about smuggling in my own dust buster and trying to remove all evidence of our dinner explosion before we leave.   But it’s hard enough to get all three of my kids through the door, much less a smuggled cleaning utensil.  And so instead I avoid eye contact as I pack up my three howling children, so ashamed am I to leave behind such a catastrophe in my beloved restaurant.  As we shuffle out with our heads down I turn and leave your fine employees one last apologetic, chagrined look, my eyes pleading with them to understand the depths of my remorse for the mess I’ve left behind and the deep need to be allowed back again.  I need you Chipotle, please don’t kick me out.  I’m sorry for the ways I take and abuse.  I promise it won’t always be this way.  Someday these urchins will learn to eat neatly.  I hope.

Sincerely,

An indebted customer