I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I pulled into my reserved spot in the far-flung corner of the shopping center parking lot. The four-bay outparcel housed a Gamestop, two vacant storefronts, and the reason why I was here. My friends had raved about this hot new chic entrant to the Orlando dining scene, but I remained unconvinced. Mexican food was always hit or miss for me. I’d eaten plenty of $2 24oz tacos and even an $18 molé once (spoiler alert: it tasted just like $3 molé). Truly delicious Mexican fare at a reasonable price point seemed even more distant than Mexico is from where I stood in Central Florida. But there I was, at 1:00pm on a Friday afternoon, prepared to take a step into the unknown.
When I opened the door, which was heavy yet welcoming, I noticed a particularly long line of hungry Orlandoites (Orlandans? Orlandonians?) either speaking to their lunch date or seeming busy on their smartphones. The diversity of those in line struck me immediately. It was a smorgasbord of races, ages, and attire, yet almost all were attractive. Some appeared to be there on a lunch break for work, while others appeared to be there skipping school or on work release. One of the first things I do at any new restaurant is glance around at the company I’m keeping. In this moment, Chipotle made the first of many positive impressions.
The interior design could be classified as either nouveau-warehouse or prison-chic. The walls were adorned with rippled stainless steel panels that were riveted into place, broken only by large windows adorned with more of the shiny metal. The ceiling was exposed, revealing the inner most secrets of the suite’s heating and cooling system. The tables and chairs appeared to be penitentiary issued – light unpolished metal adorned both table and chair making it all the more difficult to fashion a shank out of napkins and complimentary lemon wedges. The floor was a rustic concrete that felt solid under the feet and caused the chairs to squeal all manner of evil when one was pushed across it.
As the hungry patrons slowly received their fare, my turn to face the “ORDER HERE” sign came ever closer. Not wanting to seem like a newbie, I carefully listened to the orders of those before me and decided to piggyback off of whichever sounded best. The woman three people in front of me, probably mid-30s and wearing a suit, ordered a “salad bowl” with no meat. IS THIS AMERICA? AM I IN THE RIGHT PLACE? The man she was with ordered a “burrito bowl with barbasol” or something to that effect. I was so flustered that I didn’t pay much attention to the last word he said. The woman in front of me, who looked to be mid-20s and incre dibly stylish like me, ordered in Spanish. CRAP. I was a goner.
“Hi, I’ll have a, uh, steak bowl?”
“Black or Pinto beans?”
Panic.
“Uh, both?”
I knew this was a terrible answer, and I thought that my game was up. “That’ll be extra,” I swore she’d say or “Have you ever actually eaten here before?” But then she dumped heaping spoonfuls of both varieties of bean onto the pillowy layer of cilantro rice, on top of which went my appetizingly cubed steak. She smiled and thanked me (thanked ME for pigging out and ordering double beans) and passed my bowl onto the next woman whose responsibility appeared to be dispensation of salsas.
One by one she pointed at my options: “Mild, medium, hot, corn,” she said. I was struck by the humongous things she had in her ears. They appeared to be small casino chips, or at least in that design, but they shaped her face in a very flattering way. I decided to go with my previous gambit, wanting to seem like a reg.
“I’ll have some of each, please.”
She quickly piled the toppings onto the previously dispensed contents of my bowl, taking care to not push any over sides. She then passed my bowl onto yet another woman behind the counter who offered me sour cream, cheese, and lettuce, which I politely declined. “Chips or a drink?” was the next question I heard. In one motion, the cashier took my credit card, swiped it, placed a rustic metal tray under my bowl and empty cup, and handed me card, receipt, and lunch. Everything about the service line impressed me. The process was equal parts “Have it your way” and “Just do it.” It was graciously caring yet ruthlessly efficient.
In spite of the long line in front of me, seating space was ample. I posted up in a booth right next to the line so I could continue to observe both patrons and staff while eating. The drink choices were smart, featuring Coke products, water, and both sweet and unsweet tea. The ice was a standard flat block, not my preferred hamster pellet featured at Tijuana Flats, but it was solid and kept my beverage cool with minimum meltage. I decided on unsweet tea and was pleasantly surprised by the covered lemon tray directly next to the soda machine. Again, this is an incredibly efficient way to distribute lemons with minimal staff inconvenience.
On the same table as the soda machine was an impressive array of Tobasco products. They had traditional, green, and chipotle, which I had never tried before. They also had salt and pepper shakers. Napkins and plastic ware were easily accessible and I had finally gathered the necessary equipment to sit down and enjoy my burrito bowl.
The color of the untouched burrito bowl struck me as very attractive. The bright reds and greens of the various salsas contrasted beautifully with the deep yellow of the roasted corn salsa. Hints of brown from both the steak and beans peeked through, while the bright white rice backlit the entire bowl creating an attractive display.
I angled my sturdy plastic fork in such a way as to snare a complete cross-section of my meal into one bite, but this proved to be a formidable task. I decided to toss the bowl somewhat so I could better attack all of the ingredients. A quick mix brought forkfuls of white rice to the surface, and the warm smell of cilantro filled my nostrils. My mind flashed back to eating warm homemade empanadas infused with cilantro and lime on a Mexican beach with a woman named Andrea. This was strange because this never actually happened to me. Therein lies the transformative power of a delicious meal.
The first bite was pure heaven. The steak, perfectly cooked and now coated with salsa, almost melted on my palette. The spice of the warm salsas was cooled instantly by the fresh corn salsa and the rice creating an environment of pure unadultered taste without the pain of unnecessary heat. The beans complimented each other and the balance of the dish perfectly. The black beans provided a nice texture and a different flavor of spice from the salsas. The pinto beans, which tasted of bacon or ham, grounded the dish nicely and complimented the steak to give a full hearty meaty flavor.
Like a fine wine, the dish aged perfectly in my recycled cardboard bowl as I sat. The rice absorbed some of the salsas, giving the dish a new and different taste with every bite. The meat became even more tender causing some pieces to open slightly welcoming even more flavor in from the outside dish. I tried to maintain my even bites, but found myself quickly devouring the remnants of the steak. Like a ’47 Cheval Blanc, I knew the steak would only get better the longer I left it, but the otherworldly tastes I allowed myself only propelled me to eat it more quickly. Shortly after the steak was gone from the dish, fork gave way to spoon as I began to follow the outer ridges of the bowl for rice that had escaped from the bottom. The plastic spoon was seemingly engineered for this exact purpose. Its curve fit the bowl as lock and key – perfectly aligned to unlock the full potential of both.
It seemed only a few minutes and as many bites had passed since that first taste, yet I looked down at an empty bowl and marveled how quickly I’d consumed its contents. Albert Einstein once explained relativity thusly: “When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, it seems like two minutes. When you sit on a hot stove for two minutes, it seems like two hours.” I never grasped the full impact of this quote until I sat down with that steak burrito bowl. Glancing down at my watch I noticed a full hour had passed since I first lifted the heavy door and marveled at the Spartan interior. This seemed an impossibility.
Throughout my time I’d seen dozens of starving souls enter the door and emerge from the open-air but segregated line with a football-sized foil-wrapped burrito, overflowing burrito bowl, or neatly arranged tacos. Smiles abounded as children ran to claim their table or lovers smiled while refilling their respective sodas. The line of people seemed to be perpetual, yet the faces changed with each passing minute. Even at 2pm, the queue still contained 10-15 people dilligently waiting their turn to order the finest meal of their day. I thought about my childhood, and how growing up in a small Virginia town such a place would have been as alien as Mars to me. Honest to goodness Mexican food, especially of this caliber and price, just did not exist in that time and place.
I was lost in thought when the woman from the cash register offered to remove the tray and trash from my table. I was again struck by her eye contact and kind demeanor, just as I had been when I paid for the meal. I thanked her and got up from my booth. The restaurant was spotless, with not a chair out of place. With no one currently in line, the workers were busy meticulously cleaning the dining room in anticipation of the next wave of hungry Orlandonians.
I was so impressed with the whole experience that I reached into my wallet and slowly walked over to the converted vase filled with dollar bills, coins, and business cards alike. I threw two dollars and my card into the vase, unsure as to the purpose of the cards but wanting to leave some impact on the place that had made such an impact on me. A young man was cleaning the grill and thanked me for the tip. I gave him a slight head nod and pushed open the now familiar door. The heavy door opened not with a thud, as it had when I entered, but with a leap. Was it the new-found energy I had after devouring lunch on an empty stomach? Or was it the newfound confidence that I’d found a new lunch place, my new lunch place, that I could now call home?
Chipotle sign photo from Wikipedia
