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| - Call me unAmerican, but I hate fast food. No McDonald's (unless I'm in Shamrock, Texas at 11:00 p.m.), no Burger King (the char on the burger is the gift that keeps on giving), no Wendy's, Carl's Jr., Jack in the Box, or Arby's. Even In-and-Out doesn't make my heart go pitter-patter. But Chipotle - ah, that's a horse of a different hue.
Last night I was actually craving, salivating, for a Chipotle salad bowl: romaine, chicken, black beans, onions and peppers, corn, pico de gallo, brown rice, a dollop of sour cream, hold the cheese, and a dab of guacamole, with my usual "no, it's not a side order of guac, just a dab." And topped with that delicious dressing. Each bite evoked the Ecstasy of Santa Teresa, until I could eat no more. Regrettably, I had to leave a few bites in the bowl, I was so stuffed (and anticipating a stop at Yogurtland on the way home).
Unlike my neighborhood Chipotle in New Jersey, where the line stretches out the door early or late no matter what day, this location on Lake Mead was an empty pleasure. No line, no scramble for a table. My only complaint was that we should have eaten outside, because I froze the whole time, and it was just a perfect evening temperature right outside the door. Oh, well, next time. And there will be a next time.
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