GF
Gavin Fitzpatrick
2 days ago
To say the customer service here is “lacking” is like saying the ocean is “damp.” It’s an understatement so profound it borders on performance art.
I walked into this Chipotle with eight separate orders—nothing insane, nothing requiring a UN peacekeeping force—and was met with the kind of weary, soul-crushed expressions usually reserved for coal miners coming off a double shift. Each staff member looked at me as though I had personally derailed their life plan by asking them to scoop rice more than once. I’ve seen divorce mediators show more enthusiasm for repetitive tasks.
They rushed me through every order like I was defusing a bomb with trembling hands. Twice, they wrapped burritos or sealed bowls before I had even finished saying the ingredients, then tore them open again and tossed in the missing items like they were feeding scraps to a dog under the table. A bowl can survive this indignity; a burrito cannot. Burritos are supposed to be harmonious—ingredients melding into one unified front. What I got instead was a geological cross-section of disappointment.
And the protein portions? Calling them small is charitable. These were protein portions for someone in witness protection, trying not to be noticed. My double-protein orders looked like singles, and the singles looked like someone accidentally brushed a spoon over the tray and went, “Eh, good enough.”
Then came the pièce de résistance: they ran out of chicken and guacamole. Fine. It happens. But being told I needed to wait 25 minutes—while the kitchen behind them bustled with more bodies than Willy Wonka had Oompa Loompas, except only one person appeared to actually be cooking—felt like a parody of restaurant management. By the time the missing items were resurrected from whatever void they’d vanished into, half my food was hot, half was cold, and all of it tasted like resignation.
As they assembled each order, ingredients were slopped on with the level of care you’d expect from a toddler finger-painting on a moving train. My quesadilla’s red chili salsa was poured not into a ramekin, but into one of the side compartments, spilling across the container like a Jackson Pollock piece called “Chaos in Quesadilla Minor.”
And let’s talk receipts. This location does not, apparently, believe in the quaint modern concept of printing one at the till. Instead, they wrote down my order number, disappeared into the back like they were embarking on a spiritual pilgrimage, and returned minutes later with a full-size sheet of printer paper—my “receipt”—hot off what I can only assume is the same printer they use for staff reprimands. Meanwhile, the entire line of customers behind me stood frozen in time, unable to pay, trapped in a purgatory of inefficiency.
I genuinely hope a corporate rep visits soon, because this location is in dire need of something—training, management, a smudging ceremony—anything.
Of all the Chipotle experiences I’ve had, this place continues to deliver a performance worse than Shaquille O’Neal in the cinematic tragedy that is “Steel”—and at least that had the decency to be unintentionally funny.