Wanted: The Chipotle Burrito, in the murder of a damn-fine hangover cure.
Que Tal, Que Tal, oh how you will be missed. Sure, we enjoyed visiting you for a lunch or dinner of taco-y goodness, with your selection of fresh ingredients and snappy service. But where you truly shined, where you proved how irreplaceable you were, was in the realm of hang-over cures. ...
There is nothing that soothes the soul the morning after a prodigious night of liver abuse like one of your breakfast burritos. When we would transfer our phone, ID, and cash to our cute, tiny, going-out purse, in preparation for the Grog or B-Side or La Cave, we would always try to hide a fiver in the back pocket of the purse, in anticipation for the following morning’s imminent headache. After several morning-after discoveries that our Burrito Fiver inexplicably went to slices of Guys pizza the night before, we started leaving fivers in a dish on the bookshelf before we went out, to ensure that we would have the means for tortilla-wrapped salvation when we awoke from our coma of vodka and regret the following afternoon.
And then when we reconvened the next morning, groggy and with our hair askew, we would pool the previously salvaged five spots and elect the least hung-over person present as the fetcher of burritos. Burrito Fetcher would walk down the block to you, Que Tal, and return with a bag of foil-wrapped heaven. A breakfast burrito, sure and true, laced with fluffy egg, kicky chorizo, and mellow avocado. We would eat in near silence, to the tune of burrito bliss.
You helped us through many a dodgy morning, Que Tal. But now you are gone, shuttered, no doubt, because of the success of a nearby Chipotle, which doesn’t even carry eggs. The world can be such a prick sometimes.
Your contributions won’t soon be forgotten, Que Tal. Muchas gracias. -- Tori Woods