There is a new burrito place near the bar where I like to drink on Tuesday nights. I acknowledge that "burrito place" should not be used as a substitute for "Mexican restaurant," as the term "burrito place" is entirely too focused on the drunk white man's needs. They also serve tortas, tacos, sopes, enchiladas, and brains. However, "burrito place" is what I think, so "burrito place" is what I write.
I enter the restaurant. It is brightly lit. Several teenagers smile from behind the counter. I know what I want, and I know how to say it. But I don't.
You see, every gringo wants the burrito asada, with the delicious carne asada popularized by the Taco Bell ads, and I am no exception. So as I approach the counter, I must study the menu rather than immediately succumb to the stereotype, which, in the study itself, is probably a more accurate stereotype.
I consider the burrito de chorizo. Too much chorizo.
I consider the bistec a la milanesa. Gross.
I consider the burrito al pastor. Too much pork and potential for hard parts.
I consider the burrito de tripas. Tripe? Are you kidding?
"I'll have the steak burrito," I say.
The fair-skinned girl says, "With everything?" She is nice.
"Yes." I am ashamed.
You see, I could have said, "Un burrito asada, por favor," and she could have said, "Con todo?" and I could have said, "Si, con todo," but that would paint me as the yuppie who has taken a few Spanish classes. I disdain such people, and I am very much like them. I studied Spanish from Spain, so, in any further conversation (beginning perhaps, "Rich whites are destroying the world"), I would be totally lost in her Mexican accent.
I got my burrito and left.