The Big Enchilada

Really, it's the Big Burrito, but I don't think I've ever heard that phrase. Friday nights are Mariachi nights at the local Taqueria, and the food is both good and reasonably priced, so my wife and I usually manage to be there. Our daughter, being all of fifteen and too cool for that sort of thing, typically finds something else to do.

But that's not the point of this post. I came here to talk about burritos. Big burritos. Huge, enormous, vast, gargantuan burritos. Burritos that might contain actual burros, for all we know. Burritos that, despite their colossal girth, may still fail to satiate the hunger of the person requesting them.

I believe that these burritos -- remember, the tables have to be specially reinforced so as not to collapse -- are really ticking time bombs, bunker busters for the guts of America. These are truly the tools of the enemy, far more dangerous than any dirty bomb. The evil geniuses behind these burritos of death realize that most people feel obliged to finish a meal. "Clean your plate!" We all know the childhood refrain; it's part of the national psyche. And the enemy knows this as well. It's the mainstay of their strategy.

I sat at my table, transfixed by the two mammoth mounds on plates on the table across from me. Who were these people eating these hulking morsels? My answer came when the soon-to-be victims sat down to begin attacking their prey. They were, to be polite, large people. I'm sure they didn't intend to be large, but these burritos, these immense all-in-one meals, beckoned from the plate. "Look at me!" they cried. "I'm slathered in cheese!" And so they were, these oblong rolls of death. Slathered in cheese, neat bundles of tortillas -- the original size of which I can only guess -- holding vast quantities of rice, beans, cheese, sour cream, and the meat of your choice.

I ordered two.