“Chipotle is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy” – Ben Franklin

Ok maybe Ben Franklin didn’t say that. And maybe God doesn’t really exist. But that’s another topic for another day.

If there’s anyone out there that knows Chipotle, it’s your boy Rudy here. I once simultaneously held the “Mayor” title on Fourquare for two separate Chipotle’s in the greater Washington D.C. area before I realized that Foursquare was just a platform to shamelessly promote how popular you think you are (kinda like this blog). I once answered a trivia question in a Chipotle in Connecticut about Chipotle’s founding date (July 13th) and won a free burrito. I created a business plan for my retail marketing class in my junior year at JMU that laid the groundwork for bringing the restaurant to Harrisonburg, Virginia. Two years later, one opened. I lobbied for a nation-wide holiday the day brown rice became available. I once calculated that I dine at Chipotle an average of 2.2 times per week. That’s almost 115 times a year. The list goes on and on.

Even as I sit here and write this ode, I’m polishing off the remains of a Chipotle burrito bowl. It’s leaving me well-nourished yet strangely unsatisfied. The usual suspects are working their way down my digestive tract – brown rice, pinto beans, chicken, tomatoes, green salsa, corn, cheese, and lettuce. Yet a void remains.

Guacamole, as an additional add-on item, is a mystery to me. It’s a quintessential part to any Mexican dish, along with beans, rice, cheese, and lettuce. And yet I refuse to pay for it separately. Every time. Sure, from time to time I’ll order it and try and distract the food preppers when they put the lid on my bowl in hopes that they’ll neglect to brand my lunch with the dreaded “G” in black Sharpie. But usually to no avail.

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