Ok….here’s what I was thinking.
There’s a machine that doles out warm burritos in West Hollywood. No matter what I have to check it out.
Also, I was thinking…I don’t wanna drive or take pictures, so I guess I’ll bring Dave along.
This place must’ve been the nicest gas station store on the planet. You can’t tell from the outside, but inside they had rows and rows of designer whole grain tortilla chips and European refreshments. Think Whole Foods meets the Gas ‘n Sip.
Anyway, Dave and I waited our turn as a hipster gent tried to order a vegetarian burrito. His girlfriends discussed their lactose issues.
“I can’t have cheese or sour cream.” the tall one exclaimed.
We were entertained by a music video during the interim. Did I mention that the Burrito Box wants you to dance while you wait for mediocrity? No? Well, it does.
“That’s mighty kind of them.” I thought.
Not sure why I started thinking like a farm hand, but it doesn’t matter. It was our turn, so we stepped up to the plate.
Dave and I ordered the Free Range Chicken Burrito. How could it go wrong? The burrito came from happy chickens. Our total came to $3.98.
We waited some more; but at least our ears were blessed by the soothing sounds of percussion-filled techno. Ugh.
Our burrito was ready.
Looked alright in the package, but then we took it out and good lord! The burrito was damp. Damp! It was like the Burrito Box’s cooking method of choice was steam. I took a bite and was completely unimpressed. The chicken was flavorless and the moist tortilla takes you aback.
Perhaps, a bit of hot sauce would help.
There’s no picture of the burrito. I didn’t want to be reminded of what I’d tasted.
To alleviate my what-was-I-thinking moment, Dave took me to Greenblatt’s, arguably the best pastrami sandwich joint in L.A. When you come for a visit, skip the Burrito Box and go straight there. Order the #7 and look for the happy chick in the booth behind you. That’ll be me.