Wednesday, June 6, 2007

The menu at Chipotle always seemed straightforward to me, certainly digestible without a second glance, but to the locals here it is literature dense with subtext, a positively epic work requiring a trained critical eye and careful deliberation. During one visit, the party behind me loudly despaired at the sheer difficulty of ordering, while the older couple up at bat–garbed in the very fishing vests and baseball caps you’re picturing right now–simply surrendered and proceeded to parse out every conceivable configuration of ingredients.

It took nearly 20 minutes to construct what ultimately weren’t even burritos, and it was done in the slow, easygoing manner that is the pace du jour here. The rhythm to which I’m acculturated basically tells me to select the meat, choose the vegetables, add some hurry the fuck up, and pick a salsa. But the problem, you see, is really my problem, because I need to adhere to the customs of this zip code in this timeframe. This isn’t New York. This isn’t Chicago two years ago.

I’ve finished outlining a comprehensive self-betterment program, and I’m cramming it into a year. My resolve is strong at this point, but waves of sloth are already chipping away at it, even as we speak. Step one: get fit via tennis. At 7 AM weekday mornings. Step two: join a quartet or orchestra and not drop out until maybe the third rehearsal. Step three: produce a delicious one-page menu. This extends beyond just printing the menu to actual cooking. Step four: play more chess. Three of these steps are bound for failure. And the fourth one? Probably won’t even start.