Samples from The Perfect Burrito E-Book

Chapter 1

        On a corner in Los Angeles—which one, I don’t even want to remember—there is an office. I worked there for a very brief time. The office manager’s name was Michael MacDonald. We went on a Quest together, and there were windmills involved and I know what you’re thinking but I would like to set this straight right off: he is not Don Quixote, and I am not Sancho Panza. First of all, he’s not Spanish, Hispanic, Latino, Chicano, or whatever, as much as he wishes he were.
        And I have a vajayjay. So clearly there are differences.
        I don’t know much about Cervantes beyond what I could Google, but our story is not “one of the foundations of Western literature,” or about “chivalry and the death of chivalry,” or a “postmodern ironical commentary on the first modern novel” with “ample figural use of contradiction, inversion, and irony.” It’s a totally trivial story, about a totally trivial thing—the most trivial of things: food. It’s even about the most trivial of foods: the burrito. With Mr. MacDonald, that is, Don Miguel, it was always about the burrito.
        Or so I thought.

Chapter 2

http://www.theperfectburrito.com/blog
THE PERFECT BURRITO
The Quixotic Culinary Quest of Don Miguel de Los Angeles no McDonalds
Posted: Monday, January 5, 9:30 PM.
MANIFESTO
        Hola, mis amigos and bienvenidos to my blog.
        You, my reader, will find here writ The Gospel According to Miguel, testimony of the truth as I find and understand it, the chronicle of my journey seeking godhead and perfection in the oblong form of the burrito.
        “Why the burrito?” you may well ask.
        To which I may well answer, “Why not?”
        The Divine may, after all, be found in an infinite number of forms, may it not? For the scholar, it is eternally bound within the leathern pages of a Quran, Bible, or Upanishad; for the inner seeker, it is in the breath, in the Om, in the
hara somewhere between the navel and pubis; for the musically inclined, in the soaring finale of a baroque Passion, the soaring Gothic echoes of a Gregorian chant, or the intertwining vibrations of a singing brass bowl; for the artist, in the transitory beauty of a sand mandala, the transcendent lines of a Pietá, or the throbbing surge of primordial life force itself in a Rothko.
        For the burritophile, it comes wrapped in a tortilla, and this should surprise no one.



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