It’s no secret that I love food. I am never not hungry, which is both a blessing and a curse.
When it comes to Mexican food, even if guacamole is extra, there’s nothing stopping me from practically licking the bottom of my burrito bowl.
At school, I tend to indulge in Chipotle more than one should admit. I think this is true for most people — when you and your friends can’t decide where to get food, you always end up in the long, winding line that almost always snakes its way out to Kirkwood Avenue.
We love it and all of its caloric glory.
However, as most know by now, I haven’t had Chipotle for quite a while since I’ve been studying abroad. This week I went to the city of lights, love and happy-go-lucky shitting pigeons — Paris.
I’ve been once before — well, if visiting when I was 5 years old counts as “before.” All I recall is getting trampled by a frenzy of sweaty tourists on their way to see the Mona Lisa and the aforementioned pigeons that had quite a ball leaving a present on my Disneyland Paris shirt under the Eiffel Tower.
Now, as an educated 20-year-old lady, I figured I was much more equipped to explore the city sans bird poop.
Let me begin by saying Paris is phenomenal — it is the pièce de résistance of European cities.
My dream is to become a cheese connoisseur — Is a cheese sommelier a thing? — who always has a crisp baguette in her bag and rides the Paris metro to a high-class wine tasting where she will wear a fedora without looking like a Depression-era gangster. Specific, I know, but you have to have goals in life, right?
Regardless if this dream comes true or not, I thought I’d try to lead the lifestyle of this elusive cool girl during my stay in Paris. It went quite well — I ate a cheese plate under the Eiffel Tower, had a Croque Madame and indulged in a few too many macaroons from Ladurée.
Everything was going swimmingly until I saw my friends’ gleeful expressions when they saw Chipotle nestled on a Parisian street full of little bakeries and cafes.
“We have to go,” they said. “I miss it soo bad,” they said.
“No, no, no, no, no,” my internal monologue said. How, in this land full of sublime pâtisseries and escargot, could someone be craving Chipotle? Something, which, by the way, was reported to have E. coli only a few weeks prior.
I opted out of this excursion and bought a banana and Nutella crêpe on the street. It was delectable in all of its messy goodness.
American imperialism has made its claim to fame by curing a palatable homesickness with fast food. The world, once full of niche markets and specific food, is now one big melting pot of cuisines, both local and global.
Starbucks has stores in more than 65 international locations.
The spread of culture is, in theory, a great thing for people experiencing it for the first time — like Parisians trying Chipotle.
However, when it detracts from our ability to immerse ourselves in other cultures, it can be seen as a setback.
If we take the time to enjoy the cuisine of where we are, maybe, just maybe, that burrito bowl in America will be even more tasty than it was in Paris.
jlkarl@indiana.edu
@jkarl26
