Your Favorite Food vs. Hair In Your Favorite Food
I haven’t eaten at either Qdoba or Chipotle in two months. The reason for my epicurean departure from two of my favorite eateries is not without justification. First, I’m trying to implement a healthier diet. Yesterday morning I had a yogurt, a breakfast bar, then consumed a large bowl of Tortilla soup for lunch. Later I ate about 50 cocktail franks. My day usually begins with a health-conscious breakfast and lunch, then crosses over into foul territory as dinner and snack-time approaches. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts. The second reason I haven’t eaten at Qdoba and Chipotle lately is because, well, I started finding a lot of hairs in my burritos.
Due to a lack of cool day trips or road trips lately (my car needed surgery and I’m broke) I’ve begun to wonder what the hell I could do about finding new blog topics. As I’ve done several times this week, I considered again today about posting an album download for you. Then I wussed out at the last minute. A much better plan was to steal an old post of mine from the WFMU blog. At some point I plan on formally asking them to delete all the content I contributed to their website, but not before I re-appropriate everything and post it here.
Back to burritos. The last time I had one of those hedonistic masterpiece burritos was in late September at a new Chipotle in Glendale. For a week or two I was geeked about the fact that the place opened just a few miles from my house. I went for lunch there the day-after the grand opening. Two bites into my chicken burrito I noticed a curly black hair wrapped around one of the pieces of chicken in my taco de harina (as it is colloquially known in Southern/Central Mexico). Total bummer. I removed the hot sauce-dappled hair from its nest and dropped it on the floor in disgust. I contemplated saying something to the girl who made the burrito, but the place was packed with a large lunchtime crowd, and also I have an innate fear of sending back food even when there is a hair in it. Usually I am content to cry over my dish alone in the corner and then throw it away, but I had been coveting a “little donkey” (that’s the literal translation of the word burrito) all week and am too poor to toss out a meal, so I tried to wipe my memory like in that Men In Black movie with the fancy blue flashlight on my key chain. When it didn’t work, I turned off the tear ducts and continued to consume the chicken-y concoction.
Which brings me to my point: What wins in the battle of your favorite food vs. hair in your favorite food? Do you continue to eat when you’ve found some potentially gonorrhea-infected pube-looking-thing in your burrito? Or do you love burritos so much you can look past the hair and enjoy your meal?
When I was young my family had a yellow labrador retriever named Corky. Unfortunately for me, this dog’s name is responsible for my horrifying-yet-hilarious porn star name: Corky Walnut. Anyway, the dog shed a lot. I was raised in a house where I had to learn that there would be dog hair in all the food. Maybe not all the food, but more dishes than not probably wound up with little white/yellow hairs in them. I dealt with it. It never seemed to bother me. It bothered me a little more when Corky died and we replaced her with Sprocket, a black lab. It always sucked the life out of me when I was eating cereal before school and noticed a half dozen dog hairs floating in my milk after I’d finished my Cheerios.
It’s not like I look for hair in my food. I just think I’m unlucky enough to be the world’s foremost expert when it comes to finding hair in food. In a span of two days I once found a hair in a Caesar salad at the California Pizza Kitchen in the Short Hills Mall, then found a hair at the bottom of a burrito at Blue Moon or whatever that Mexican place is in the Essex Green complex in West Orange. What’s worse is, after I found the 2nd hair, my friends tried to cheer me up with some ice cream from the Cold Stone Creamery next to the Mexican joint. Guess what? Two or three spoonfuls into my “Love It”-sized cake batter ice cream with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, my spoon became entangled in a mess of long blond hair. I hurled the ice cream cup out the window at a passing car in what I consider the defining moment of my finding-hairs-in-my-food career.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I could easily avoid the decision to eat food with a hair in it altogether if I just wasn’t such a pussy. My fear that someone could spit in my dish if I were I to return it keeps me from doing so. Is that what all you normal people do? I always thought that the crazy people are the ones who return food all the time because it’s not hot enough or it’s too hot or it’s cold or too cold. I didn’t know that the real crazy people are the ones who suffer in silence while they force themselves to eat potentially gonorrhea-infected chicken burrito pubes. Stupid Evan. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
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