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Admit it. In the last year, you’ve been to your local Chipotle easily 10 to 20 times more than you’ve been to your personal house of worship. Or any house of worship. Perhaps if my synagogue offered me a choice between black or pinto beans on Rosh Hashanah, maybe I’d be more excited to come back next week for Yom Kippur. Actually, scratch that, I’m not sure anything could get me excited for Yom Kippur. It’s a day where all you do is NOT eat and beg for forgiveness because you’re a horrible, horrible sinner.
But maybe Chipotle’s becoming more than just a fast, casual restaurant. In a day and age where services like Seamless can bring us just about anything we want, we make a pilgrimage to Chipotle–sometimes as frequently as once a week–and what we want in our burrito has, frankly, become a ritual. Sometimes we anoint our tasty delight with guac, and other times, we may have to do without, thanks to the evils of price increases. However, the way we dress our religious object pales in comparison to the joy and elation we receive when we consume the object of our worship. We are the disciples of Chipotle, and this is our prayer.
Our Chipotle, who art down the street from our office
Hallowed be thy makers, who assemble our burritos behind sneeze-proof glass.
Thy chicken, steak, or barbacoa,
Thy tortilla in the grill be done,
With black beans as they art in pinto beans.
Give us this day our choice of salsa
And forgive us for asking for free guac,
As we forgive our Chipotle for increasing prices so we cannot afford guac.
And lead us not to Moe’s or Qdoba
Despite that Chipotle delivers us from free chips.
Forgive us for asking for a water cup
And subsequently filling it with iced tea and lemonade.
For thine is the kingdom, the quesarito, and the bowl
Forever and ever.
Queso be with you.
And also with you.