Adrian F.
Yelp
Ah, Chipotle. The chain that turned burritos into edible sleeping bags and made guacamole a luxury item rivaling Bitcoin. I love this place like America loves reality TV: we know it's bad for us, we know it's fake, but dammit--we keep watching.
But let's talk about this location at 301 N Larchmont Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90004. If Chipotle's origin story is Steve Ells opening the first spot in Denver in 1993 with dreams of "gourmet fast food," then this place feels like the dystopian sequel. Portions here? California micro-size. They give you three grains of rice, a single bean, and whisper the word "protein" like it's an ancient spell. Crunchy tacos? Missing in action. Guacamole? Vanished like Hoffa. Agua frescas? Broken, again. Coke machine? Out of order, naturally. Bathrooms? Let's just say calling them "functional" is a violation of the Geneva Convention.
And yet--I keep coming back. Why? Because it's Chipotle. It's Stockholm Syndrome wrapped in foil. I complain, I curse, I swear I'll never return, and then two days later I'm back in line, begging for my burrito bowl like a raccoon pawing at a trash can.
Two stars, only because one star feels cruel and five stars would be a felony. This isn't Mexican food. It's not even Tex-Mex. It's history: the story of how America fell in love with cilantro rice, paid extra for guac, and still lined up at a place that can't keep its Coke machine alive.
Chipotle is proof that even when the world burns, we'll still settle for lukewarm queso and broken soda machines--as long as it comes wrapped in foil.