You never forget your first. The anticipation. The fear mixed with excitement. What if I do it wrong? What if it’s not as good as everyone says? What if it’s over too soon? What if I never get to do it again? Or what if this is it? True love, rendered in pure aching, physical perfection? What if this is all that I ever want and need? The physical manifestation of God’s love for humanity? What if I can’t get enough, and I never think of anything else again?
My first, was the Blackened Chicken Caesar.
The first bite was perfection, or so it seemed to my inexperienced lips. Cold, crunchy lettuce gave way to warm rice and beans. Chunks of warm chicken anchoring the substantial filling. The entire exquisite assembly bound together with a ribbon of zesty Caesar dressing. I filled my mouth voraciously, bite after bite until there was nothing left but the warm juices pooled at the bottom of the foil wrapper. It was over almost before it started. Flushed and slightly embarrassed, I looked around the room, thankful that few witnesses could ever testify to that first time. More thankful still that over the years that first awkward experience would evolve with the sepia distance of time into a cherished personal milestone.
Over the next several months, my appetites and tastes would grow and change. Honey Lime took her time in the spotlight, Buffalo Chicken Wing too. Crunchy BBQ Ranch and I had a brief fling. On other occasions, I would skip the burritos altogether, and turn my affection to the steadfast Quesadilla. Barbecue chicken, Mesquite, Blackened all took turns in my personal bacchanal. I lorded over each like Caligula, never sated.
A plan started to hatch. It was innocent enough. An up and coming restaurant would surely wish to expand beyond the confines of Cordell Avenue. Other young men, in other cities were surely aching to experience this same release. I would take the franchise and expand into Philadelphia. Countless men and women had no doubt experienced similar divine congress when they bit into their first real cheesesteak. The ethos was ripe for a companion food. One that was more complex, more sensual than the staid soft pretzel.
Years passed. The dreams of young people, as they often do, calcify. But those dreams never truly die. They lay fallow, like hot embers, waiting for that fresh breath of oxygen to reignite them into a dancing orange flame. Particularly during this time of reflection, that dream began to burn hotter. The crackling hiss of smoke that precedes the spark that foretells the flame…
Today, there are only buckets. Sopping, soggy pails of water, slosh over the fire. The embers turn to cold viscous ash like a boot-black’s polish. The cost of starting a California Tortilla franchise: $653,900.
apatheticallydecomposing 
Well. There’s always Chipotle.