Lunch is On Me

There’s a market near where I work that’s open 2 days a week and I sometimes go there to get lunch. One of the stands sells a wonderful burrito but it can be a chore to buy from them because all of the employees are high. Just placing an order becomes a Cheech and Chong skit.

“I’d like the bar-b-cue chicken burrito.”

“We’re out of chicken, dude.”

“How can you be out of chicken two hours from closing?”

“Idunnow.”

“This is the second time you’ve been out of chicken in the past two weeks.”

“Yeah?”

“At the start of the day why don’t you order more chicken?”

“We’re out of chicken, man.”

“I get that, but why do you keep running out?”

“Out of what?”

“Chicken.”

“We’re out of chicken, man.”

If you stay sane long enough to order your food then you get the joy of watching a carnival sideshow freak make your food. There’s Metalhead with flathead screws through his lips and screen door handles dangling from his ears. Maybe you’ll get the Hepatitis Chef. He’s getting another tattoo as he cooks your food, this one on the only piece of unadorned skin he has, between his toes. My last trip I was lucky enough to get Grizzly Adams, a trucker hat sitting precariously atop a mound of unkempt hair that crept into a copious beard growing like kudzu vine. And he’s working without a net. That’s right, nine and half quintillion hairs that could fall into your food and no hairnet! At one point I saw him pull a spatula from behind his ear and rake his beard to get the black beans for my burrito. I didn’t see where the guacamole came from and I don’t want to know.

When the burrito was finished it was passed off to Slacker Dude #365 who shoved it into a bag and sleepily called out my name while simultaneously selling a tab of acid to a lawyer who wanted to know when his nachos would be ready.

The burrito was good as always and I survived although I did hack up a hairball during a meeting later in the afternoon.