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| - The finale of Sean Penn's amazing film The Pledge finds Jack Nicholson's character, a retired police officer, despondent over having bungled his final murder case: He drinks from a pint of booze, outside his shuttered gas station, silently arguing with himself. Gripping, true and seared into my memory.
So it was with my first visit to a Chipotle.
Mr. and Mrs. Yelpington had been out on the town, having skipped dinner in order to make an early show. On the way home, she mentions a new Chipotle has opened in Brunswick. Okay, I've never been. Let's go.
Kind of has the minimum security prison grub line feel to it. Slide a tray along, bang your tin cup, hope that ALL they did was spit in the food. The young folks working there, having not yet been ground down by the relentless wood-chipper that is the food industry, were cheerful, attentive, pleasant and professional. I can just imagine little Taylor or Jordan or Megan heading home after night shift: "How was work tonight, Sweetie?" "Oh, not bad. Some rolling wreck wandered in around closing and looked like a Yelp reviewer, so we got all sugar-pie-honey-bunch in his honor. Other than that, same slice of America descending rapidly into global decay as usual. G'night!"
Food wasn't bad, although all day today I wore the grimace of regret. (Your roughage may vary.)
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