I will never be a food writer. Not a real one, at least. Real food writers eat refined foods and use refined words. I eat everything I see and blurt everything that comes to mind. I imagine real food writers using phrases like “a decadent blend of flavors”, or “complexity of ingredients”, and “playful on the palette”. I use phrases such as “are you going to finish that?” and “don’t judge me for having thirds.” Real food writers taste and savor. I snarf and gobble. Real food writers will sprinkle their accounts with history and bring relevance to the culinary item in question, I am an eater and writer of opportunity. Like this one time that I ate a three pound burrito.
Hubby and I were coming back from Denver after a day of shopping, or attending a bike show, or just driving around. I can’t really explain what it is we do when we go to Denver. The term “putzing” comes to mind. We stopped at a place in Georgetown for dinner on our way back to the County. Looking at the menu, our options included “normal” burritos, and then, they had the “Killer Kilo” burrito. Described on the menu as “three pounds of awesome”, Hubby thought I should order it. I thought I should not. I wasn’t even that hungry. So we went ahead an ordered the Killer Kilo.
The Monstrosity was daunting from the start, especially when compared to Hubby’s “normal” burrito, which was still rather giant by most people’s standards. The Killer Burrito was about the size of a piglet, and it was graced with three meats, not just pork. It wasn’t smothered with anything though, and I didn’t know why. It was decadent? I wasn’t even that hungry.
It was an OK, burrito, but would have probably been better if I was allowed to pick just one meat, or if it had been a steak. I wasn’t even that hungry. I continued eating because I felt I had something to prove now, I was no quitter. Yet, not even a third of the way through, I was painfully aware of how much more I had left to go. As each bite was forced down the hatch, I kept envisioning the glory, a crowd gathering around me, cheering me on, and my reward- that Kilo Burrito paid for, on the house, just like that Man vs. Food show.
I was nauseated and diaphoretic when all that was left on my plate were a few scraps of tortilla. I called it good, I was done! But there was no reward, my tab would not be covered for my valiant effort. And there was no crowd – just a couple of crusty locals who offered to buy me a beer of which I couldn’t drink a drop, and the bartender, who looked at me with equal parts amusement and disgust. We paid our tab, and I spent the short walk to the car thinking about how there were no good bathroom options between Georgetown and home. Sensing my worry and slight disappointment, Hubby turned to me and said “well you’re still holding it down, I’m proud of you.”