The Time I Realized I Was Evil For Ordering Burrito Bowls

02 Aug, 2016

Just as there’s more than one way to skin a cat, there’s more than one way to eat a burrito. But not all are kosher. Or legal.¹

Near the end of Bo Burnham’s new comedy special, Make Happy, I realized that I had become a monster.

You see, in the final moments of Burnham’s standup — which is thought-provoking, dark, crude, hilarious, and filled with at least four separate Pringles jokes — he talks about how disappointed he is in getting a messy burrito at Chipotle.

“The whole appeal of a burrito is that all of the ingredients are contained within the confines of the tortilla,” Burnham posits.

After going on to describe his burrito dilemma in detail, he wraps up the joke by mentioning that he would never eat a burrito with a fork.

This is when it hit me. I was just sitting there in my room, alone, laughing to myself when I realized it:

I eat burritos with a fork.

I stopped laughing and stared out into the dark abyss that was simply my eyes trying to adjust, now that the light of my computer wasn’t pouring into my retinas. This is the moment when I realized how inadequate I really was.

Now hold on. Before you try and force me to go to Moe’s or direct me to this guy’s epic rant about the travesty that is tortilla-less burrito consumption, let me explain: I used to eat burritos how God intended.

I haven’t always been a heathen. This is the story of my fall from grace — how I started ordering burrito bowls at Chipotle.

--

It was freshman year at UNC. I had never been to Chipotle before. Aside from a pepper, I didn’t even know what Chipotle was. Back in my booming hometown of Sanford, North Carolina (population: less than your hometown), we couldn’t even claim an overpriced coffee chain (Starbucks), much less an overpriced burrito chain.

My suite mate is from the D.C. area, though, and he was a self-proclaimed Chipotle regular, so we trekked up campus, walked down Franklin Street and entered the world of slightly-too-loud indie music and slightly-Mayan wall art.

Up to the counter I walked, and being first in line, I did what any red-blooded man would do: I ordered a burrito. A real burrito, confined within a warm tortilla and lovingly wrapped by the friendly Chipotle worker with the high-fade haircut and ear gauges. It was loaded with brown rice, black beans, steak (obviously), pico de gallo, sour cream, cheese and lettuce.

It was beautiful.

Look at this big, delicious-looking burrito. My mouth was just starting to water when I looked back and watched my friend order:

“Yeah, can I get a burrito bowl, please.”

WHAT?!?!?!?! HAHAHAHAHA! THIS KID IS GETTING A SALAD!

I shook my head and started to simply move on with my life, burrito in hand. Who cares if my buddy wants to waste his money on a salad when-

WAIT.

The mainstream hipster Chipotle worker just scooped way more rice into that cardboard trough. And after that, he scooped more beans and, wait... he gave him more steak.

I was baffled. The bowl and the burrito are exactly the same price. We should be getting exactly the same amount of food. That is what capitalism has taught me. But alas, that simply wasn’t the case.

Downtrodden and disappointed, I drifted into one of the awkward, semi-circle corner tables and set my small, sad burrito down in front of me. I watched as my friend sat down across the table, a triumphant smirk across his face and a fork in his hand.

It took him more than twice the amount of time to finish his towering bowl than it took me to finish my bantamweight burrito.

Thus began my fall to the dark side.

--

Fast forward four years, and I have returned. I haven’t ordered a real burrito here since that fateful day of my first visit. That’s about to change, though.

Forget trying to amass as many morsels of steak as I possibly can. Forget ordering a burrito bowl to go (with no intentions of eating on the go) because you know the guy with the high-fade haircut will give you even more food when he knows a lid will safely contain an ever-growing mound of edible bliss. Forget that age-old college strategy of frugality, of searching out free food wherever and whenever you can.

I’m done with college and I’m done with burrito bowls. Bo Burnham has helped me realize my ignominious ways.

It’s the principle of the matter.

As epic burrito rant guy so eloquently says, you don’t need a fork to eat a burrito. The almighty himself made sure of that:

Jesus already gave me two burrito forks. One at the end of each arm. They’re called f****** HANDS.

No more forks. I can do this. I can come back to the light. I take my food, ignore the people asking me to sign up for Chiptopia (what the hell even is that?) and go to one of those awkward, semi-circle corner tables.

And instead of using a fork to eat a burrito bowl... I use chips to shovel my seductive steak burrito bowl into my face.

I’m a monster, I know. There is no helping me. And frankly, I don’t think I want to be helped.

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