Burrito Supremacy

Just when I thought humanity couldn’t possibly stoop any lower than the disproportionate amount of beans I had just received on my burrito bowl, something happened that set liberal rights and sheer decency back 50 years.

This is actually a taco.

It was crowded at Chipotle and I was imagining that the employees were doling out beans the way that I used to dole out extra buttered popcorn to the senior citizens during the discount shows at the theater. Lethal levels of butter or beans are paramount to the passive revenge of the working soul, let’s be honest. On top of paying $12 for what amounted to a cardboard container of pintos, I was disgruntled by the amount of people both in line and at the tables. We had to go outside which isn’t so bad once you get past the fact that I was once hit in the face by a dive-bombing pigeon at this very establishment. It was sunny and the breeze was still. There was a child sitting in a booster seat nearby tossing (what else) beans onto the ground to the delight of the flying sewer rats that call themselves birds. Nothing was amiss until the man in the red fleece jacket entered the patio with a round tray of burritos balanced on his pale, wrinkled hand.

There were plenty of places to sit. Look, here’s one:

Vacancy

There was little difference in the way of sun or shade or kropogs to the restroom. All the tables were nearly identical, save for the seating capacity, but the Red Fleece man had his heart set on a certain table and no other would do. There was just one problem….

There was already a family sitting at that table.

I should rephrase that. To normal people there would have been just one problem. Normal people would have resigned themselves to sitting a table over. Normal people probably wouldn’t care so much about a metal table wrought with pigeon poop and dried-up grains of spilled rice outside a burrito joint. Red fleece man; however, will not be denied.

Silver tray in hand he sat right down at his table of choice as if he was good ol’ white Uncle Charlie, the whitest black sheep a family of Mexicans could have. He smiled. He made conversation. He made everyone uncomfortable.

I seriously don't make this crap up

“Hello there. How are you all doing?”
This caught my eye because his presence at the table was clearly a surprise.

“Did you all get the burritos? They’re good. Good burritos. Well, did you enjoy them?”

As far as I can tell the lady and one of her sons seemed to be pleasantly humoring this social miscreant. They smiled and answered his questions. They didn’t push him for an explanation into his sudden unwarranted appearance in their lives.

Burritos chilling to room temperature by the second, Red Fleece finally got to the point and moved his bishop in place to check the king.

“So you’re done, right? My family is coming and we’re going to sit here.”

The family, who did seem to be finished with their meal, gathered up their belongings and left just as Red Fleece’s brood came pouring out from inside the restaurant. He waved them down as if he was landing a plane and finished up pleasantries with his new friends bidding them an enjoyable weekend and a hearty goodbye.

Same Red Fleece man, new family at table. Old family sent to wander desert.

Since this family was in no way affecting the turnaround or availability of seating and dining within the confines of this patio, I find it a little disgusting that Red Fleece even felt like it was okay to ask them to move. Would Rosa Parks’ story be any different if the people demanding her removal to the back of the bus had, instead, sat down next to her, complimented her handbag, and THEN told her to move? Probably not. Both of these audacious men should have been rightfully slapped in the face with a pork-filled burrito.

Husband and I couldn’t believe that the family had just pleasantly left him to his table and maybe that is wrong. They didn’t need it anymore and happily gave it up and for that they are the better people. They probably got in the car and laughed about it. I would have raved about my right to sit and talk as long as I pleased so long as there were plenty of available tables. Swelling with Italian fury, I would have announced my plans to bring a curse upon their tribe of evil and attempted to call upon the pigeons in a cyclone of eyeball-pecking servitude. I wish I was more like that family. (Except maybe the younger boy who looked thoroughly appalled at each word that fell from Red Fleece’s thin, dry lips.) Still, somewhere, somehow, I hope that Rosa Parks has a great, great, great granddaughter who will club someone right over the head with her handbag should she be asked to move for any unreasonable purpose. And may she never accept an inferior burrito.

Seriously, are you greasing the palms of the bean farmers, or what?